Too Much To Deduce
by CumberMey
Summary: Our all time favourite Duo try to face the truth of their lives together after the return of The ever frightful Moriarty. Feelings involved and a wife and baby on the way, it doesn't seem like it will be an easy ride...but it never really is when the detective is involved. JOHNLOCK CONTAIN SPOILERS FROM "HIS LAST VOW"
1. Prologue

_**So here it begins- Too Much To Deduce! this is my first fanfiction, so I'm very excited!**_  
_**Hope you'd like it :) **_  
_**Enjoy :)**_

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PROLOGUE

JOHN'S POV

"There's an east wind coming," I said, extremely satisfied to watch the plane land just a few moments after it took off, knowing that I didn't actually have to give up on my best friend again. I started to believe that I was the main reason for Sherlock almost disappearing again, and probably this time forever. There were so many things I wanted to say but never knew how, and frankly, I still have no idea. Even though not ten minutes earlier I was sure I was never going to see him again. I thought that this would be my only chance to speak up, but I blew it. Again.

Those are the same things I wanted to say when I thought he'd died, but never got the chance to. Even when Sherlock returned, I couldn't bring myself to tell him all that I wanted to say. All those thoughts about him, about us. All those awkward and difficult-to-explain thoughts and feelings and whatnot.

How many chances am I going to have to tell him? I got lucky once, and here's once again. But I don't think that I'll ever be lucky enough to have a third chance to blow it, so it's time to start thinking about finally speaking up. Even if he'll still be around and I'll have to deal with the consequences. But now is probably the wrong time to think about it; right now I need to think about the fact that Sherlock isn't leaving, and apparently Moriarty never left.

Sherlock killed Charles Augustus Magnussen for me - that is as clear to me as the fact that he would never admit it. Maybe for Mary, but never for me. We haven't spoken since, because Mycroft kept him hidden, 'under protection'. He took away his mobile phone, and wouldn't let me see him or talk to him. It seemed like longest week of my life. I missed Sherlock so much, that I frequently just read our texts from the start of our friendship. I used to do that quite a lot when I believed him to be dead. I knew that Mycroft was looking for some compromise on this delicate situation. Sherlock may have killed someone, but he also saved hundreds of lives and solved thousands of murders. There was no other way but for Sherlock to leave the country. Until, of course, Moriarty came back.

Everything seemed to blur together from the moment Sherlock shot Magnussen, until I was standing by the car trying to deduce how it is possible that Moriarty is still alive. The police never found the body, that I already knew. However, Sherlock said that Moriarty shot himself right in the head, and I'm quite sure that even Sherlock would have a great deal of difficulty faking that - especially with someone so observant watching every second of it.

But through all this confusion, I was almost happy to know that Moriarty was alive. So happy that I feel I could almost greet Moriarty as an old friend, and shake his hand as I thanked him for not being dead. If he were dead, nothing could have stopped that plane from taking Sherlock wherever he 'needed to be' - where I could never see him or even speak to him again.

Sherlock stepped off the plane with a very big smile, and spread his arms to hug Mary. Since he deduced that she was pregnant, he seemed to do that a lot.

"Seems like you will have to deal with me a while longer," Sherlock drawled, keeping his eyes fixed on me even as he hugged Mary and shook hands with Mycroft. He must have been very happy. His smile disappeared quickly enough, and his 'back to business' expression appeared on his face.

As if Sherlock's expression was some sort of a reminder to Mycroft, he stood up straighter - if indeed that was even possible - and said, "Brother mine, I think we have some work to do."


	2. Chapter 1- A Fresh Start

_**Hey**_  
_**please comment as much as you can so we can make this story better :)  
Thanks Old Ping Hai for the perfect beta!  
Enjoy  
**_

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Mycroft escorted Sherlock to the black car and showed him the creepy picture of Moriarty repeating 'did you miss me?' (Clearly we haven't.)

"It has been running more than ten minutes, and does not appear to be stopping or changing. As I understood from Anthea, it's being played on every screen in the country," Mycroft explained. "You can't change the channel; you can't even lower the volume. People are starting to really panic." He glanced at John then, and observed, "Brother, I think your... friend is going to faint."

The Holmes brothers both stared at John, who was at the moment extremely pale, and embracing his wife with a worried look on his face.

After the moment of elation, I realized that if Moriarty had actually returned, then Sherlock is in grave danger - if anyone could ever manage to kill Sherlock, it would be Moriarty (or Mary, but I prefer not to think on that).

They are like the real-life Voldemort and Harry Potter- only one can live. Wait, does that make me Ron, or Hermione? Either way, I wasn't about to stand back and let Sherlock take on his arch nemesis - good lord, is this even real? - without his best friend.

A moment later I also realize that Mary is in danger, yet with her reputation as an assassin, she can probably take care of herself and our little baby on the way. Yet, I can't leave Sherlock to deal with Moriarty by himself, nor can I stand to have Mary and our child be in danger.

More importantly, Sherlock has already proved to me several times that he is willing to kill and be killed to save his friends, and I'll be damned if I let him do it again. This time if someone must die, I should gladly give my life for Sherlock. If not for my best friend, then for who?

I have done this before - risked my life and freedom to save Sherlock's. Even the very day after we first met, I killed for him. Just to protect him. Who knows what could have happened if I had not pulled the trigger? Sherlock might have been dead, and all this never would have happened. I would not have gotten a life full of adventure, excitement, friendship more powerful than anyone could imagine... Even though it wasn't always easy, it was the best life that I could have hoped for after the war. I was sure I would be damned forever with my limp and the everlasting tedium of an ordinary life, but Sherlock fixed me, and allowed me to truly live again. He fixed me, and I owe him so much. I couldn't ask for a better friend than Sherlock Holmes.

I was aware that both of the Holmes brothers were staring at me with expressions of concern which looked oddly out of place on the generally apathetic siblings, and tried to give my best smile to show them that they have nothing to worry about. I'm not afraid of Moriarty. 'Not convincing enough' I noted to myself when Sherlock got out of the car and walked in my direction. Every step seemed heavier and slower, as the anxiety started to make my heart beat faster, thinking of what Sherlock might say.

"We both think that you and Mary should get out of the country for now. Just until Moriarty is gone for real," Sherlock said quietly. His eyes, which expressed deep concern and warmth, flicked back and forth between me and Mycroft, who was clearly responsible for the idea. It was rare to see Sherlock actually obey Mycroft's suggestions and plans, especially when he so obviously did not agree with them - not completely, at least.

"Well, sorry, dear, but we are absolutely not going anywhere," Mary said with a kind smile and hard look at Sherlock. I was rather grateful to hear her say that, but probably not grateful enough.

"I can't let you stay, you might get hurt." Sherlock stated firmly, challenging Mary's stare with a hard look of his own, "You saw what happened last time you and John were in danger and I couldn't bear it again; being locked down by Mycroft is outright dreadful." He couldn't guarantee our safety, and although he made jokes, it seemed that was really bothering him. He knows I'm not afraid of Moriarty, and I'm sure he knows that even if I were, I would face the madman for him. Really, if he doesn't know that, then perhaps he's not as clever as I thought.

"Look mate, I don't care what's going to happen, I'm not going anywhere. It's like you said; the game is never over." I looked Sherlock directly in the eyes as I spoke, conveying all of my determination and certainty in that stare, "I would rather play it with you if that's alright." I wanted to do this with Sherlock. The two of us against the world - against Moriarty - like old times. As long as I can. It's probably my last chance.

Sherlock grabbed my hand and pulled me aside, which I did not expect, but I allowed it.

"John, it could be dangerous - very dangerous - and this time I'm _not_ saying that to convince you to join me," Sherlock warned. "You have a wife and a child on the way to take care of. You don't need this kind of thing on you right now and—"

"Sherlock, _listen to me,_ I won't let you do it alone. Not ever. Maybe I could convince Mary to leave the country for a few weeks - and that's a big maybe - but I'm staying right here to help you deal with that dick head! Just the two of us against the world remember? That's the only thing that matters right now."

Sherlock held my shoulders firmly and looked me in the eyes as he said, "Don't do it for me, John. Do it so you can raise your child in a Moriarty-free world." We both chuckled quietly, even though I was a bit overwhelmed by the unexpected intensity. I nodded firmly and clapped a hand on one of his shoulders just before he pulled me into a hug which, shocked yet no less pleased, I returned. We stayed like this for a long moment, just glad that we have this time at all; that it doesn't have to end right now.

For a brief moment I felt Sherlock relax, pulling me closer and leaning into me, but then he left the embrace quickly, as if he'd just remembered we have a case to solve. "Sorry about that," he muttered, "don't ever mention it." He cleared his throat, looking in every direction except at me."But you have to get Mary to leave the country, it is already too much of a risk with you staying here, I can't worry about her as well."

"You have nothing to –" I argued, but, as he frequently does, he interrupted me.

"Oh and one more thing," Sherlock pleaded with an expression somewhere between embarrassment and dread, "there's a letter on your nightstand; don't open it. Promise me."

"A lett—"

"Promise me, John," he demanded.

"You, wrote me a letter?" I blinked, wondering if I hadn't imagined what Sherlock had just said, "Why?"

Sherlock sighed heavily and raised an eyebrow as he spoke, "I thought we would never see each other again…that's what people do, don't they? Write a goodbye letter."

Something must be wrong, it's not possible that Sherlock actually wrote me a goodbye letter. The last time Sherlock told me _'that's what people do'_ he was about to jump off a roof and leave me grieving at an empty grave for 2 fucking years, facing his absence with frustration and tears. A lot of tears.

"What's wrong Sherlock? Are you dying or something? Why would you leave a note?"

Sherlock seemed to be getting to the end of his patience, and looked angrier by the minute. He was clearly not ready to talk about this.

"No, John, I'm not dying. Not yet. I would have, if I'd left, but as I am staying there is a chance I may survive, hence why I am telling you not to read the bloody letter." I wasn't sure if I should leave the subject or keep pushing for answers, but to Sherlock's relief, Mycroft called us over before I could decide.

"Come, Doctor Watson, there's a lot to be done. Sherlock, I assume you've already deduced where we must begin," Mycroft drawled.

"Obviously." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "But there is something else we need to do before that. Mary, the plane waits only for you."

Sherlock went to hug her but she stopped him, one eyebrow raised and her lips pursed, staring him down. Sherlock stared back, his face determined and insistent. This went on for what seemed like several minutes.

"Mary, please, if not for me or for yourself, then go to protect our daughter." I begged, while Sherlock and Mary continued their staring contest, "Keep her safe now while I try to make a safe future for her. It's not safe here."

She narrowed her eyes slightly, and finally, she shrugged and sighed in resignation. "All right then, off I go. But just to be clear," she emphasized, "I'm only agreeing to this because I'm pregnant. Now, where am I going?"

"Wherever you would like," Mycroft smiled, "you can take it as a vacation."

"It could hardly be a vacation Mycroft, all alone and worried sick." she commented, "Paris perhaps?" she tried to smile, but all I could see in my wife's eyes was deep concern.

"Paris sounds good," I concurred and kissed her lightly. "We will be fine. I promise. Just take care, all right?" I hugged her tightly and didn't let go until I was positive she was calm.

She smiled an unconvincing smile as Mycroft put his hand on her shoulder. "I'll keep you updated on the progress and wellness of my brother and your husband," he assured her.

She shook her head and said "Don't bother wasting any time on me. Just keep them safe and get rid of that bastard Moriarty," she commanded as she kissed him lightly on the cheek, then whispered something I couldn't hear. Mycroft nodded and looked at me, as if he was trying to read me. I find it even more aggravating than when Sherlock does the same.

Mary got on the plane and waved goodbye. With a worried, yet delighted expression in her eyes, the plane took off, heading to Charles De Gaulle Airport in Paris.

"Ok, so we are done with that, now can we please go?" Mycroft complained, "Moriarty is out there for god sakes."

"Yes, and he will still be there if we wait for a couple more minutes." I sighed. Too much has happened, too much to process in 30 minutes. More than I could possibly have imagined could have happened to me today. At least I didn't lose my best friend. I still have Sherlock by my side, and I'd worried that I would never have that again for the rest of my life. I felt my stomach twitching at the thought that this was supposed to be my last day with Sherlock. The expression on my face might have been funny, because Sherlock grinned widely and his eyes were fixed on me.

"What's on your mind, John?" he asked - which, in and of itself, was remarkable.

"Nothing," I answered, "just thinking about how unexpected this day turned out to be." I smiled back at him, wondering when he started to make me smile just by being present. This wasn't the first time.

"Yes, this wasn't really what I expected either." Sherlock smiled broadly, and sounded like the most pleased person in the universe - aside from perhaps myself. "I think it worked out as well as it possibly could. The two of us, going on an adventure to solve crimes and catch Moriarty - What else could I possibly want? This is the most interesting thing to happen since I've been back from the dead."

"I'm very delighted to see the both of you so pleased," Mycroft said, his voice dripping with a level of sarcasm I think only possible for the Holmes brothers to achieve, "but really, this is a short drive and we need to talk about what we are going to do," Mycroft said, poorly concealed anxiety written all over his face.

"Where are we going actually?" I asked Sherlock, who rolled his eyes at me and turned his gaze toward the rushed streets of London.

"Baker Street."


	3. Chapter 2- The Game

_**Hey there, beautiful people!**_  
_**I'm sorry it took so long (it's hard to publish fanfictions in the army), but there you have it- the third chapter of "Too Much to Deduce"**_  
_**I'm so excited!  
Thanks Old Ping Hai for beta this chapter! **_  
_**Please read and review! **_

_**thanks for reading**__**  
**_

_**meytal  
**_

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**SHERLOCK POV**

"Baker Street? Why?" John asks, with what I assume to be a failed attempt at nonchalance. John is not the type of person who can hide his feelings; I need to remind him that, next time we're alone.

"For a Doctor, and someone who has worked so closely with my brother, you are not too bright, are you?" Mycroft sighs, which annoys me for some reason.

"Well, if you're so smart, why don't you explain?" John seems angry and frustrated. He hates being with me and Mycroft together. He's gotten used to me, but being subjected me _and_ Mycroft at the same time made him feel stupid, which, to be honest, he really isn't.

"Clearly the timing of all this wasn't a coincidence," my brother rolls his eyes, "Moriarty must have known that Sherlock was about to leave the country!" Mycroft patronized John, which made me very angry with my brother, although I wasn't sure why.

I sigh and shift my gaze from John - who I realized I had been staring at - to Mycroft, who must have thought that today was a good day to be a prat. Honestly, if I didn't know him, I might think that he was really anxious about Moriarty. So I guess that in some way, I'm lucky to know him, and therefore know that it is all just a big game for him. There's nothing he loves more in the world than to look down on others - and people say _I'm_ arrogant.

"Mycroft, for god sake, eat some chocolate or something and shut up," I say, trying to sound as superior as I could manage - that always annoyed my brother. I look again at my best friend now, to explain the situation in a far less patronizing tone than Mycroft had used. "John, Moriarty planned this to keep me here. To challenge me and invite me to continue his little 'game'. He knew I was leaving the country, and I'm fairly certain he also knows why. So he deduced that his overly dramatic return would force me back to Britain without hesitation. A new game. Fresh from the grave, if I may. So, having deduced that he came back to pull me into another game of 'catch the psychopath before he ruins me', I know that he would have a surprise waiting for me in the flat. However, this time I have a considerable advantage. This time everyone knows what Moriarty is, and his lies which shattered my image during his last game have been brought to light. No one will believe that again, so he's come up with something new. Most likely this is a sort of grudge match, for revenge or whatnot. Last time it was all just fun and games, this time it's personal. Which means we haven't got any time to waste, John, because if Moriarty's last game was deadly, it was nothing compared to what awaits this time, when he's had years to plan."

John nods, his face growing ever paler. He looks like he's about to vomit, and he is clearly very anxious; probably imagining what kind of 'surprises' Jim might have left for me. But in just a split second, his expression changes, and he suddenly seems very pleased with himself, full of confidence. He may be up to something.

"Do you think we can use it to our advantage that he doesn't know you never left?" John jumps a little in is seat, so immersed in his train of thoughts that he probably didn't even notice Mycroft had been staring at him this whole time. John smiled at me, his eyes alight with hope. "Yes, he has his element of surprise, we have ours."

Before I have a chance to think it through, the black car has pulled up in front of 221B Baker Street, the main door of which was wide open.

Hardly a few seconds later, John is already outside the car, vanished inside the building. I step out of the black car and stop Mycroft, who is also about to get out. "Don't," I insist. "we'll be fine. Call Lestrade and tell him to come here as soon as he can." I'm about to shut the door when I hear John behind me, telling me Mrs. Hudson was not in her flat. He's breathing quickly, excitement and fear clear in his expression. I turn to face Mycroft again when he sighs, and asks if he should call her too. I nod, "And if she doesn't answer, have Lestrade find her."

Mycroft sighs again, "Take care, little brother." He closes the door and the car heads off to my brother's office.

"What's the plan?" John asks seriously, with a heavy undertone of excitement. I raise my eyebrow at his enthusiasm.

"Do you have your gun?" He nods, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a barely repressed smile.

I smile back at him, knowing and empathizing with what he was excited about - The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through his veins, the excitement of 'The game'... Just like old times.

I walk inside the building, curious and - what is that little twinge in my stomach, nervousness? - about what I might find in my flat. Those 17 stairs seem like a long road, that never seemed to end. When finally I am stood next to my flat's door, I hear music.

Partita No. 1.

So it really is him. I doubted it a little bit at first, given that the message showed only a photo of Moriarty, poorly animated to make his jaw move like that of a puppet, accompanied by a repeated recording of "did you miss me?" which could have easily been manufactured by any sound editing program. But now, hearing the music, there was no doubt in my mind that James Moriarty truly had returned.

I take a deep breath and open the door.

I'm not sure what I expected from the psychopath, but this certainly wasn't it. The entire floor is covered in black balloons, and on the ceiling is written "Surprise" in what appears to be blood. The flat smells like cheap perfume, and in the middle of the living room there sits a small radio; the source of the music. Going on the fact that the music is barely half way into the cheerful melody, I deduce that Moriarty couldn't have left more than ten minutes ago. It's odd hearing Bach's Partita No. 1 in this setting; the black balloons, the blood-red message, and the harsh smell make the joyful piece seem far too eerie. It makes me shiver to my core.

"_Bloody hell,_" John murmurs, as though he were almost surprised, "he's truly a psychopath." John walks through the balloons to get to the kitchen. "Sherlock, you may want to see this," he calls. I walk toward the kitchen and see a beautiful, most likely toxic, black cake on which is written "Did you miss me?- JM"

"Where is he?" John wonders, moving toward the kettle.

"Well, I doubt that he is inside the kettle," I comment, quirking my brow as he begins to make tea. John only rolls his eyes in response; he really is becoming far too much like me. I stand by the entrance to the kitchen, listening to the music. "But I think we'll know soon enough." John stares at me for a few seconds before he moves his eyes back to the kettle, as if making tea would require his full attention.

"Why do you think so?" he finally asks.

"The piece is about to end," I tell him, my eyes landing on the radio in the living room.

The final tones of the Partita are played and the music stops. John looks at me, expecting me to say something, but there is nothing to be said. Just to wait for the message which is inevitably coming. A woman's scream sounds from the device. Janine - screaming my name. Crying and screaming. There is something that sounded like she's been slapped, and then she said between sobs;

"It was the happiest day of their lives

And the loneliest day of yours;

Where vows, and tears, and laughing arise,

My blood will drench the floors.

Step by step, he owes you a fall,

And I am the first to go.

Come dance or he will end us all

And leave you with naught but woe."

Silence.

"What the _hell_was that?" John is paler than I have ever seen him, and from the way that he looks at me I understand that I look the same.

"The beginning of the game," I say, as I prepare to leave the flat. "Let's go, and don't forget your gun."

"Of course, but wait, who was that woman - just another random person, like the first time? Where are we going?"

I look at him, almost tempted to hug him again. He is so naive sometimes. I have to touch him, to feel him again somehow, to be sure that he is still there. He makes me feel alive. Being with him is stronger than any drug I could use to make me feel alive and fascinated. Hugging him today was so tense; it didn't mean half of what I had to say but it meant the most important thing he needed to know- Thank you for staying.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?"

I nod briefly, and try to stop a taxi.

"So who was she, and where are we going?"

"Janine. He's trying to take everyone who's important to me. Step by step, 'burn the heart out of me' remember?"

"Oh, right. So he's beginning with your ex? Why does he think you even care? You only went out with her because she was Magnussen's assistant".

I roll my eyes at him, as a cab finally stops for us. We step into the car, sitting there in silence. He is tense, restless, and frustrated that he didn't get his answer. I take a deep breath and figure it's time for the truth. At least part of it.

"At first, I didn't know she was his assistant. She was just pretty, and fairly intelligent for an average person, and there was no doubt she had an interest in me, so we started dating. She was the first woman I dated in 5 years, and I was actually attracted to her, which is a rare enough occurrence that I figured it was worth giving her a chance. When I found out that she was Magnussen's assistant I was... Angry. I didn't want to be too close to her once I found out, in case Magnussen was using her to gather information about me. I knew she would be useful, but I would have to act like she was just part of a case, and nothing more. After all is said and done, I do care about her, and she is only the first. It won't take long before he'll go to the next person who's important to me."

He stares at me, as though he were trying to analyze and deduce me the way I did to everyone else. Bloody hell, I can see why everyone hates it. What will he find out? That I need to stop Moriarty by any means necessary before he gets a chance to hurt John? That I'm torn between sending him out of the country for his own protection or holding him close for my own selfish reasons?

Human error. That what this is. Just my human error.

Caring and developing sentiment toward John Watson.

"Sherlock? Are you listening?" John sighs; I shift my stare to look him in the eyes so he knows that he has my undivided attention.

He pats my shoulder, which I assume is supposed to be relaxing but only makes me think of how much I need him, making me even more desperate to kill Moriarty.

"You have nothing to worry about, Sherlock. We can do this. He won't hurt anyone else." He smiles at me and leaves his hand on my shoulder. Maybe I should start praying. I'll pray to a God I don't know is listening, that I'm not sure I believe in; but I'll pray anyway, because John must not be harmed.

I throw my head back, sigh and close my eyes, trying to think.

I know there is no use telling John to get on the next plane to Paris and be with his wife - he won't leave, and I don't really want him to, but I need to protect him and be patient with him more than ever.

He removes his hand from my shoulder, and suddenly I feel emptiness down in the pit of my stomach. Cold and lonely, just because his hand is no longer on my shoulder. I roll my eyes, ashamed of what I have become, what have I done to deserve this..._sentiment_?

Irrelevant. Boring. Useless.

Sentiment won't help us now.

The car pulls over next to the gardens, still familiar even after all these months.

"My wedding venue? _Seriously_?" John mumbles, his expression no longer patient and apathetic. There is now anger in his eyes, and his 'war' face is on. An expression which always reminds me that John, under all the covers, is still a soldier. A brave, strong, acute soldier. Who is willing to kill for his beliefs.

"I can't believe that he is going to ruin this for me, too. As if St. Bart's wasn't enough. Or pools or journalism or even Westwood. Now he wants to ruin my wedding for me? I hate this _bloody psychopath_!" John kicks the seat in front of him in frustration.

He's right of course; Mori-_fucking_-arty is indeed trying to ruin everything which ever made either of us happy. For god sakes, he ruined murders for me for a whole week!

Something has to be done; I can't go in with someone who has more anger in his mind than logic. I have to get him to calm down.

"John, listen to me, don't let him ruin anything for you. Don't think of it as your wedding venue; think of it as just a venue you don't even know, that you have never been to. This venue is just about a case. Nothing more than that right now. Can you do that?"

He stares at me for a few seconds and seems more calm. He sighs and smiles bitterly, forcing himself toward self-control.

We step out of the cab, toward the building, passing through what was several months ago the path where we greeted the guests of the wedding, but now doesn't mean anything.

As we enter the building, there is a rather prominent stench of blood. The scent fills every cell in my body and makes me shiver.

"This place is huge, how are we going to find Janine?" John asks, his military past obviously making him more immune to the smell.

Although there is a shiver in my spine at the very thought of it, I know that there is no other way.

"We have to follow the smell: the stronger it gets, the closer we are. We should start in the dance hall." I hardly even notice that I instinctively grab his hand, and we start running toward the dance hall.

I suddenly remember that I danced alone with Janine in the back room before we began the traditional 'best man - maid of honor ' dance in front of everyone. She must be there.

"Back room," I say, and change our direction to head for the place I first realized I cared for Janine.

We arrive in the back room, out of breath. Laying naked and unconscious on the floor, is Janine. John immediately goes to her, checking her vitals and confirming that she is still alive.

Barely. But she is alive.

There is no trace of Jim; he vanished like he was never even there. Like he wasn't responsible for the naked, bleeding woman on the floor.

"Sherlock, you better see this," John falters, handing me a letter marked in Janine's blood. I clear my throat and take a deep breath:

"You can't protect them,  
You can't hide them from me.  
Tonight I was gentle,  
Tomorrow I won't be.  
Ordinary Sherlock, what can I say?  
Wait for my riddle, and continue to play."

"This dickhead is just_too creepy,_" John snarls, as he covers Janine's body with his coat.

"Give me yours, too; she might get hypothermia." John demands. I remove my coat and cover her gently. She is so beautiful, and so fragile.

Ugly injuries are plastered all over her body. There's one odd mark which looks like he must have bitten her. Who knows what more he may have done to her.

I find myself nearly overwhelmed. I can't think about it. _No_.

Odd. It's different when it is someone I actually like.

"Lestrade is on his way with the ambulance, so all we have to do is just keep her stable for now," John informs me. I get down to my knees and check her pulse. John smiles at me widely, and I can't but wonder why.

"Good to know that you are not such a machine after all," he tells me, effectively satisfying my curiosity.

If only he knew that he was the only reason for that.

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Thanks again for reading!  
don't forget to review :)

Partita no.1, Johann Sebastian Bach- watch?v=9VnWObqfPxQ


	4. Chapter 3- Just a Nightmare

**_Thanks J. for the beta!_**  
**_Enjoy _**

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****

John POV 

Few hours later we were already on the back seat of the cab back to London, knowing we have at least two hours drive. Finally, back to Baker Street.

This day could not have been more exhausting. I was tired and hungry, and Sherlock, as usual, wasn't.

How is that possible?

After finding Janine he was oddly quiet, just sat next to her and held her hand until the ambulance arrived.

He answered all Lestrade's questions with integrity and didn't mock him or insult him even once.

He didn't deduce anyone, didn't annoy any one. He seemed to be just swamped in his train of thought.

Even when it was just the two of us in the cab, for almost an hour, all he did was stare out at the rushing streets of London. The city full of life.

Only god knows what might have been going on in his brilliant brain; What thoughts might cross it, what revelation he might discover. I wanted him to say something, just so I could know that he was alright. Because trust me, he didn't look alright at all.

I had to break this heavy silence.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock moved his gaze from the window yet didn't respond to my question. "Sherlock, are you alright? Where are we going?" His gray-blue eyes were fixed on mine, like he was trying to tell me something without using words. Like if actual speaking would drain him of his remaining energy.

"Have you read the letter?" He inquired.

"What letter?" I looked at him, confused.

"The letter I told you not to read. Have you read it?"

"Of course not," I assured him; he had told me not to. He looked at me, smiling gratefully, swiping his gaze back to the window.

My curiosity about the letter only Increased. He really shouldn't have said anything.

"Bart's. And then home, you look like you need to get some sleep."

"What are we looking for at Bart's?" I hated this place. Sometimes even more than Afghanistan.

"Molly" he mumbled and didn't elaborate farther. Of course, Sherlock thinks she might be next on Moriarty's list.

"Don't you think he knows you would try to warn her? Or anyone else, for that matter?" I noticed his eyes were once again, fixed on me. He barely even blanked. His gaze made me feel exposed and uncomfortable, not that it even matters, he already knows everything about me.

Well, maybe not _everything_. I really hope not everything.

"I know he does. That doesn't mean I will just give up. Molly has the right to know, she saved my life last time, so probably Moriarty is going to be extremely cruel to her. I'm not going to let that happen. She doesn't deserve it." He sounded so sad and guilty. I almost started to pity him but I knew this would only insult him and make him feel worse.

_Control yourself John Watson. Sherlock will be fine. He has you and you are not going to let anyone hurt him. Right? Right. _

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I could swear it had only been a minute since I closed my eyes, but when Sherlock nudged me, it was already almost an hour later, and we were outside of St. Bart's hospital.

"You can stay in the cab if you would like, I'll only be a few minutes."

I shrugged as I opened the cab door, "No that's fine, let's go."

We got out of the cab and entered the hospital. I had been here only once since Sherlock's alleged death, when Sherlock was high. I'm still angry with him about that by the way.

After Sherlock's false suicide, I wasn't planning to ever go back there, but I couldn't leave Sherlock now, it had been a long day, and this place only reminded me that I was about to lose him again today. I knew I would probably feel better if I stayed with him.

We walked through the door to the familiar morgue and saw Molly completely concentrated on the dead body in front of her, she didn't even recognize we were in the room. I cleared my throat and smiled when she jumped a little in surprise.

"Oh thank god!" she ran into Sherlock's arms and hugged him tightly. "Why are you not answering my texts?! I was so worried! I can't believe he is back" she cried quietly and didn't let go of Sherlock, who kissed her forehead lightly and mumbled something I couldn't hear.

She took a step back from Sherlock and wiped the tears, which almost made their way to her cheeks. She took a deep breath, "I know, I'm not stupid Sherlock. I know what to do."

"I never said you are. No more than anyone else, at least," he smiled bitterly. "I just hoped you didn't forget our plan."

She rolled her eyes at him and sighed "Like I could ever forget it, but don't worry, I'm ready" She was staring at me now; as if she just noticed I was here. Her expression changed and she seemed worried. Sherlock looked at her and asked me to wait outside for a minute. I didn't like it. I didn't like it a bit. Why does she always know everything? Furthermore, why does Sherlock let her help him, when he's keeping me away? That was not fair.

A few seconds later, he was out of the morgue, and we left the building in silence.

"What are you hiding from me?" I murmured, barely even trying to hide the hurt in my voice; Sherlock would know anyways. The whole thing was just too frustrating.

"Nothing. I just needed to talk to her alone."

"Yes, but you talked about me. I'm not thick you know, I saw how both of you looked at me, like I'm just going to drop dead any minute now."

He rolled his eyes but didn't even look at me, and it didn't seem like he was ever going to answer me. I sighed my frustration.

"I know it's dangerous. I know it's possible that Moriarty will try to kill me. I know all of that. But _seriously_, as long as I choose to be here with you, I need more details. You can't just not tell me stuff and expect me to go blindly to my death. Especially when you have no problem telling Molly everything."

"_Oh for god's sake, John_! Can't you see what's going on?! I don't want you to die! I won't let _anyone_ kill you! You should have got on that _bloody_ plane with your _bloody_ wife to _bloody_ Paris!" He sighed heavily, and it seemed like he was trying very hard to control himself. Once he regained his composure he whispered, "I wouldn't be able to handle it if I were the cause of your death."

Why does he always have to make everything so hard and be such a drama queen? There was no other place I'd rather be. Why can't he understand that? I won't let anyone hurt him. And there's more chance for us to get through it all alive if we can actually defend each other, rather than leaving him to deal with this awful situation on his own.

He felt guilty, and he shouldn't. I want to be here, with him. This was my decision, and I stand by it firmly.

"Sherlock, I won't die if we work together. Even if I do - which I'm far too proud to consider - it would not be your fault. I'll be fine, we'll be fine. We can do this." We stood there for a few minutes. I just waited for him to say something, anything, for god sake. He didn't say a word, and I was far too exhausted to keep waiting for very long for his response. I was just hoping he would look at me again.

"Sherlock, please look at me, let's go home." he nodded and we walked in silence toward Baker Street. Every now and then trying to stop a taxi, but without any luck.

When we got to the flat there was no reminder to what was there this morning except for the little radio in the middle of the living room.

I sat on the couch, exhausted. Hungry, but with no desire to start cooking.

"Tea?" Sherlock offered as he handed me a cup. I took a mouthful of the English herbal tea, relaxing immediately.

Sherlock really should make tea more often.

**...**

"SHERLOCK" I jumped out of my seat, my forehead covered with drops of sweat. My pulse was quickening and I could barely breathe. The same nightmare every night. It never changes, not even now that I know the truth.

Every night when I close my eyes, I see my best friend jumping off Bart's hospital roof. I see his head smashed on the sidewalk and there is blood everywhere. His blood. Sherlock's blood.

The tears poured down on my cheeks yet again. I had long since lost count of how many nights I had been haunted by this nightmare.

2 years, and then months more of fear, of missing Sherlock, and now, a fear of losing him again. Every night I am reliving the most horrible day of my life.

_Breathe. Just breathe; you already know how to deal with it_.

I opened my eyes to see Sherlock staring at me. Pale and out of breath.

"Are you alright?" He seemed worried, as if I just said something horrifying. "You screamed my name before you woke up" he murmured, with an apologizing gaze.

_Oh. Now that is just great. _

"And you... Humm... Cried" he whispered.

I took a deep breath. Now _that_ was irritating. I managed to avoid this for the 6 months that I stayed the night frequently (because the whole 'my wife tried to kill my best friend' scenario), and now is certainly not a good time to start talking about my nightmares.

"Well, you know Sherlock, ordinary people have nightmares sometimes."

"Right, but why was I part of yours?"

Did he really want me to say that every night when I close my eyes, I see his head smashed on the ground?

Maybe I could just ignore him, and he would forget it, or at least leave it for now.

I stood up from the couch and started walking toward the kitchen. I really needed some coffee. Sherlock grabbed my hand and pulled me to him. His pupils were dilated and his pulse raising.

"Why. Was. I. In. Your. Nightmare. John?" Every word was like a knife, increasing the tension between us. I could feel his warm breath on my face.

"Let go of me," I struggled and he just tightened his grip. "Why does it matter Sherlock? It's only a dream." He raised an eyebrow and clenched his teeth.

"Maybe, but it is not the first time. You are used to that dream. When you first had nightmares when we lived together regularly, you always seemed terrified. When they became regular, you were more relaxed. Now you seemed _very_ relaxed, which means that it has been going on for a while now. What is going on John?" His breath was shallow and his eyes fixed on mine. There were a few seconds of silence, of just staring each other in the eyes. After a few moments, my gaze was fixed on Sherlock's amazingly beautiful lips.

My face burned with that realization.

Sherlock noticed. Of course he noticed. He is Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes. Yet he was still holding me, his pulse was strangely high and his pupils extremely dilated.

"What do you think is going on?" I finally was able to say, before I did something I might regret.

Sherlock sighed and loosed his grip,

"Just stop. Don't have nightmares about me. It really isn't worth it."

He wasn't holding me anymore yet I stayed close to him, feeling the warmth that radiated from Sherlock's body. The urge to touch him was almost too strong to handle.

"You need to sleep well before the next riddle. And eat something, your stomach would wake up Mrs. Hudson. And make some for me too" I nodded at him and smiled with relief, thanking him without words for changing the subject.

He smiled a smile that felt like home. The only thing that made me feel safe, like I'm where I was supposed to be. Even though being with Sherlock was dangerous and it was completely reckless of me to stay, considering I already have a wife and a baby on the way, I couldn't possibly have felt happier and safer.

I walked towards the kitchen and made us some pasta with tomato sauce, nothing too difficult, so I could just go back to sleep (hopefully without nightmares).

I went back to the couch and closed my eyes, trying to fall asleep again without thinking too much about kissing Holmes. I'm not gay.

When I woke up again, Sherlock sat next to me, probably also sleeping lightly, and there was music playing from the little radio in the middle of the room.

Beethoven. Moonlight.

I sighed heavily and tried to wake Sherlock gently.

Here comes another riddle.

* * *

**_  
Thanks again for reading!  
moonlight by Beethoven- watch?v=4Tr0otuiQuU_**


	5. Chapter 4- Human Error

**_Hey guys, I'm sorry it took so long but here you have it- the fourth chapter! _****  
****_I would be really honored if you'll take a few seconds to leave a review, it keeps my motivation ;)_**

**BTW: my beautiful friend Old Ping Hai did the beta. Isn't she amazing?!  
****_  
Enjoy :) _****_Meytal_**

* * *

**Sherlock P.O.V.**

Well, thank god, this is a quiet piece. The last thing I wanted was to wake up to the sound of Jim's creepy voice, so at least I have a bit of preparation.

"Sherlock wake up, I don't know how long we've got for the riddle to start, and I would really appreciate some tea before running around London." I opened my eyes and saw John standing above me, with messy hair and puffy eyes. I didn't even have to watch the clock on the telly to understand it was about 6 AM, which means we slept for barely 3 hours. Both of us utterly exhausted from yesterday, and knowing there is another day like this ahead of us was, is some way, highly frustrating. But just look at the bright side: Only 12 more minutes till the next riddle. How thrilling!

When I finally got up off the couch, John already stood next to the kettle, making, in my honest opinion, the best tea anyone could ever make.  
I went to stand next to him, anxious about the next riddle. The most logical assumptions were that the next "victims" will be either Mrs. Hudson or Molly. The tricky thing was that if it really is Mrs. Hudson, we'll have to hurry up; she is an elderly woman, and she might not be able to handle this for too long.

8 more minutes to waste.

John handed me a cup of tea, yet didn't even look at me.

After the obvious expression of physical attraction from him last night, he is acting kind of odd; doesn't make eye contact, shivering a bit (probably from embarrassment). Frankly, if I weren't so flattered, I might be affected as well by the awkwardness. Luckily I am flattered.

Even though I'm not sure if I were supposed to try and kiss him last night, I _really_ wanted to. Yet I know better, and I know that if we ever kiss each other, he has to be the one who needs to make that move. He is the one with the big question mark above his head.

I don't have doubts about my sexuality. I'm attracted to the person, and then to his body, not the other way around like most people. I'd had a few sexual partners before, and most of them were men. Yet I still find myself attracted to both genders, even though they were all just experiments or were used in a matter of a case. The sex meant nothing.  
Then again, there was Irene Adler. She was something special, wasn't she.

_The woman_.

She was as almost as important as John at the time; there was sentiment involved with that woman, no doubt. That was the first time in my life that sentiment affected my sex life. It was different. When we had sex, it was much more…powerful. Pleasuring. It meant _something_. She even said she loves me, how ridiculous. _Love_.  
Well then, as my big brother always says, 'all hearts are broken' and we never spoke again.  
Even though Irene was obviously unique, John is much more than that.

There was no denying that John is beautiful, in every sense of the word. My feelings for him are much more complicated than any I have yet experienced. Especially now, when he has a wife who tried to kill me, and a baby on the way.  
I was too late.  
Definitely too late.  
I noticed those feelings 3 years ago, and yet didn't say anything, or do anything about that.

Maybe late is better than never? Maybe I should try to say something? I've already said everything in the letter I left him before we went to the airport, but if I'm still here, I should just say everything, not letting him simply read the stupid letter like a little coward. Right?  
Either way, it is irrelevant now.  
We only have 2 minutes to waste.

"Did you sleep well?" John asked suddenly,and smirked. What the hell? What kind of question is that?  
I nodded briefly, giving him a questioning look. He laughed quietly.  
"When I woke up, I heard you… making noises."' What the -  
"You know," he cleared his throat, "moaning and stuff." I think I just had a heart attack. I can't really remember what I dreamed about, but I can remember it involved John. Oh god, please tell me I didn't say his name.  
Is my heart still beating? That is a very good question. It would be a shame if after all I've been through, I die because of a heart attack. Even worse, if I die of a heart attack over an erotic dream. Unacceptable.

"Ar- are you sure?" I managed eventually to mumble.

"Yes, but don't worry about it, everyone has dreams once in a while." Okay, so that means that I didn't say his name or anything. Nothing too weird, or out of place.

Just in time to keep me sane, the second riddle started and Moriarty's creepy voice filled the living room.

"Under your nose she was taken  
such a pity for such a brave woman.  
When we started she will be,  
very symbolic, can't you see?  
Hurry up, her heart is not strong  
who knows if she'll survive this for long."

"Mrs. Hudson?" John asked and I nodded. Of course, but this is too easy. It is not typical of Moriarty to make things_ too easy_. John had already grabbed his coat and tossed me mine.

"What are we waiting for? We can't let her die!" he yelled; panic was clear in his voice.  
"Where do you think we are going, John?"  
"The pool where Carl Powers died. Though I really have bad memories of _that place_, we don't have much choice," he said with doubt. That was my first instinct too, obviously, but that was just too easy.

"Do you have a better idea?" he asked after a few seconds. I clenched my teeth and walked through the door downstairs. He was right, it was better to start somewhere than just pace around the flat doing nothing.

When we finally got into a cab, I felt a bit calmer. Maybe Moriarty just tried reverse psychology to make me doubt myself.  
Maybe.  
No, that is not possible.  
We are wrong.

I played the riddle again in my head and replayed 2 sentences which made me doubt my decision even further: 'Just under your nose…', 'when we started…' Oh god.  
"STOP THE CAR!" John and I shouted together. We looked at each other, stunned and satisfied with each other's deduction. _It was_ reverse psychology. We had to leave the flat to understand it.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" John asked with enthusiasm. I nodded again and smiled. He was getting quite good at that. "Yes, of course. The basement apartment - 221C. Where we found Carl Powers's shoes."

How was it that I couldn't see that earlier?! "Driver, back to Baker Street, please."

The car turned back to Baker Street, and within 10 minutes, we were already outside of the building.

"Stay in the cab, I'm going in. Don't move John. If I'm not back in a few minutes you may come insi—"  
"I may? Oh, thank you, Sherlock, for allowing me to help." Sarcasm. Never liked it. "There is no way. You are not going in alone."  
"John, think about it! If she is in the same condition as Janine was, we'll have to evacuate her as soon as possible." John sighed and relaxed a bit.

"Fine, do it quickly." I smiled at him and for the first time today, made eye contact. I'm done.  
This 'human error' of mine is far too dangerous._ No time for that now,_ I reminded myself.

I got out of the car and entered the building. Going toward the basement Mrs. Hudson has been trying to rent for almost a decade now. When I finally stood in front of the door marked "221C" I felt my whole body shaking. I never gave much thought to what I would do if any of my few friends in the world were to die.

Except when John almo—_don't think about that now for god sake_. With shaking hands, I opened the door carefully, afraid of what I might see.

Mrs. Hudson was there. Tied to what seemed like a stripper pole in the middle of the room. She wasn't naked like Janine. She was bleeding and unconscious, yet still alive. All the signs indicated that he tortured her and bit her with a whip.

* * *

A few minutes later, I was already out of the building, Mrs. Hudson on my back. She was bleeding heavily, and we had to take her to the hospital as soon as possible, even if it wasn't very convenient, taking her in a cab.

John's eyes widened when he saw her, and he immediately got out of the cab to help me carry her inside the car.

We finally managed to get her in the car, and promised the driver a fair amount of money if he would just drive us to the hospital without asking any questions. John shivered, and I was sure it wasn't because of London's cold weather. He cared about Mrs. Hudson almost as much as I did, and watching her like that was very, _very_ hard.

"You know, when you died, she was the only one to truly understand me, and she was always there when I needed her help. And now, she was just under our nose and we almost didn't get to her on time. I owe this woman so much," he muttered sadly.

"He tied her to a stripper pole. To humiliate her." I murmured in anger. This was the most shocking fact. He actually _humiliated_ her.  
"This son of a bitch." John shook his head with disbelief. "I really hate him, you know?" I looked at him and smiled a bitter smile. Of course I know, who would hate someone like Jim Moriarty, if not John Watson.

"Was there a note on her, too?" I passed him the note that I'd found and he read it out loud, even though I was already replaying it in my mind for the 8th time:

:"I felt sorry for her  
such a shame.  
we still have three more.  
don't you love this game?  
are you ready?  
I'm sure you are not.  
Wait until tomorrow.  
we don't have to rush."

"Three more? So he knows I'm still here." I nodded. He definitely knows. "So; Molly, Lestrade and me?" he confirmed, and I nodded again. There is no use in actually speaking up if the person next to you already knows all the right answers.

Text to: D.I Lestrade  
From: Sherlock Holmes  
'Come quickly. St. Barts hospital. He got Mrs. Hudson'

"Sherlock, are you all right?" No, of course I wasn't all right. If this is only the beginning, then how am I going to feel when I find Lestrade, or Molly, or... _John_. I can't handle the thought of John getting hurt because of me. Not again.  
It was awful enough the first time, when my dear brother told me John tried to commit suicide. That was the worst day of my life and yet, somehow I never managed to bring myself to talk to him about it.

"Why did you try to kill yourself 2 years ago?" I murmured. Frankly, I didn't mean to say it out loud, but maybe it is for the best. I would love some answers.  
John looked at me, terrified, like a deer caught in the headlights.  
"Ho-how do you know about that?" I looked at him, trying to understand how a person so brave and so mentally strong could do such a thing. I must admit, it's beyond me.

Luckily for John, we arrived at the hospital, and for the next 6 hours, the only thing that mattered was Mrs. Hudson.

When we arrived, Lestrade was already there, said he was already in the morgue when I texted him, and once again asked all the irrelevant questions about Moriarty, the riddles, and this whole game.

"She was tied to a stripper pole when I found her, but I doubt if it is still there. By the marks on her back, she got bitten and tortured with a whip, as a reminder of her past as a drug-addict stripper. Jim was still there when we left the house. When we returned, it was just 2-3 minutes after he left, judging by Mrs. Hudson's condition and her bleeding rate. He humiliated her on purpose, to let me see that he isn't just going to physically abuse his victims, as if more to mentally abuse them."

Lestrade nodded and wrote everything down. When he finished he smiled a bitter smile and he shivered.  
"Is this your version of 'be prepared'?"  
"Sorry. I'm sorry. I never thought it would come to this." He nodded briefly and went toward the door. About to leave the hospital, he opened the door, yet stood there for a few seconds.  
"Am I next?"

"It's either you or Molly," I said honestly. He deserves the truth.  
"It's OK, Sherlock, it isn't really your fault. Just promise me that you will do what you can to… save me, I guess," he choked a giggle and left the hospital.

"I wasn't planning anything else," I sighed.

* * *

Six hours later, John and I left the hospital, mentally exhausted from what happened to us today. We didn't even try to get a taxi, we just started walking back to Baker Street, feeling that an hour in the fresh air would be good for us.

"Do you really want to know?" John asked me after 20 minutes of walking in complete silence.  
"Know what?"  
"All about the suicide thing." I looked at him, honestly surprised. I didn't think he would bring that up so soon, but I wanted to know. I wanted to know everything. I nodded and he took a deep breath. Preparing himself.

"Well, it happened about 3 months after you died, and I was a mess. I started having those nightmares about you... seeing you...never mind, that part isn't really relevant. But one day, when I woke up from this nightmare, I started seeing you everywhere. You were there saying I'm wasting my time while eating, and you were there on the street, deducing people for fun, and you were there at Scotland Yard, laughing at Greg for trying to hug me. I hallucinated everything, but I was happy. I wasn't alone any more you know…" He stopped walking and just leaned against one of the buildings. I knew it must be difficult for him, so I waited, and leaned against the wall, just next to him.

"The day after that, you were gone again, and I was sick of it. I knew what I saw the day before wasn't real, but pushing me back to facing that you're dead?" He shook his head and covered his eyes with his palms, and continued, "So I went to the pharmacy, and bought sleeping pills, paracetamol, even a bit of penicillin. I went to the flat, and checked that Mrs. Hudson wasn't home. I even wrote a note.  
The next thing I remember is Mycroft standing above my hospital bed, with pity in his eyes. He said I was out of commission for almost 3 days, that he was very disappointed with me, and that I should have called him if I wanted help. I was in the hospital for 2 weeks after that, got back to therapy, and tried to live." His eyes were still covered and he tried to breathe deeply. I wanted to hold him, comfort him, show him that I'm here and that he doesn't have to be alone any more. That is all I ever wanted to do, but I couldn't. Instead, I just held his shoulder and pulled him toward me in some kind of a semi-hug.

"' If you are not here so I'll just have to come to you. It isn't the same without you'." I remembered that note by heart. It was the worst day of my life. I tried to delete it several times, but without any luck. John looked surprised, yet not for long.

"You were really there, right? At the hospital. I was sure I was just imagining. Too many drugs…you know."  
"Of course I was there, do you remember what I told you?" I was still holding him tightly, too afraid to let go.  
"If you do that again, I really will kill myself." We both laughed. It was a bitter laugh, but after all we've been through today it was just what we needed, as I continued holding him and breathing in deeply the so comforting smell that was all John Watson.

He finally uncovered his eyes, looking at me, and stopped laughing.  
He has the most beautiful eyes. _What the hell is wrong with me?_

We just stood there holding each other, side by side, staring at each other for what seemed like an eternity. I noticed his breath was shallow and his pupils were beginning to widen; the pulse on his carotid seemed very fast. I knew what was going to happen next, and there was no way I was going to stop it.  
He licked his lips and had something between desire and hesitation in his eyes.

"Thank you," he whispered, and leaned forward.

I followed him.

* * *

**_Hope you enjoyed it!_**  
**_the fifth chapter will be published soon, I promise!_**  
**_Don't forget to leave a review ;)_**


	6. Chapter 5- Is This Forever?

**Chapter 5- Is This Forever?**

John P.O.V.

Sherlock was leaning forward, and what may have seemed like a nonchalant expression to most people was actually a look filled with anxiety and… is that _desire_? Either way, I didn't actually believe I was about to kiss Sherlock Holmes. After all we have been through, after almost 5 years, it seems unbelievable. I have never been gay, nor had I thought much about it; haven't had sex with someone who doesn't have boobs and vagina or was attracted to one. Am I attracted to Sherlock? Well, there isn't any other explanation, is there? I had already closed my eyes and felt his surprisingly soft lips on mine, when the universe declared that now wasn't really the right time to kiss Sherlock, not yet anyway.

As Sherlock leaned forward, there was a black car stopping on the road in front of us, and the driver honked. We didn't even have to take a look to know who was waiting for us in that so familiar black car.  
Sherlock straightened up and seemed annoyed, muttering something to himself with fire in his eyes. He opened the door to the back seat of the car and slipped, gracefully as always, inside. I followed him, trying not to think about what almost happened again, only moments ago. It's never a good time to mull about kisses in front of Mycroft Holmes.

"Do you always have to interrupt?" there was no need of a genius to see that Sherlock was not happy with his brother suddenly appearing from out of the blue.  
"You will be thanking me for that later, Sherlock, but aside from that, I think we have some information about Moriarty, if that interests you enough." I raised an eyebrow, questioning his intentions.  
"You clearly need more time, Dr. Watson, no offence. I can't let you hurt my little brother now, can I?"  
I felt my face was burning with embarrassment, avoiding looking at either of the Holmes brothers.  
"Keep your big nose out of my business." Sherlock was annoyed that his brother might be right. I knew he was right. I wasn't ready for this, and frankly, I owe Mycroft a lot for stopping this from really happening. Regardless, it's beyond me why he thinks that Sherlock would get hurt. It's not real for him. It is just a game. Like everything else. There was nothing sentimental for him about that kiss. I couldn't help myself from that bitter thought.  
_You must not think about it, just be glad it didn't happen yet_.

"What do you have about Moriarty? He almost killed Mrs. Hudson today," I said quickly, before Sherlock could just storm out of the car without listening to the important part.  
Mycroft looked at me with gratitude for focusing on the important subject, and took a deep breath.  
"I know, such a shame, she is a wonderful woman indeed. You know, Dr. Watson, that recorded music you hear before every puzzle isn't really recorded, Moriarty played it live—"  
"Not Moriarty, one of his minions I guess; why is that important?" Sherlock snapped, "I guess that the location isn't really relevant, you can notice the difference between the acoustics and the quality of the piano in both puzzles, so they change it daily. Plus, I'm quite sure that it isn't even the same person who played both those pieces. There is an enormous gap between the skill level required in each of the pieces, and it is simply not possible that someone who can play Bach's Partita that well, would play Beethoven's Sonata in such a mediocre way. So, dear brother, why is this _important_?"_ Amazing. It never stops being absolutely amazing._

"Are you done showing off?" Sherlock didn't say anything, just rolled his eyes with annoyance and Mycroft continued, "Well, the location isn't important, nor is the player; the only thing that matters is that Moriarty wants you to go after him. He will do anything to make you want to go and chase him around, and all those 'little details' are his way to catch your attention. I would bet on my life that he expected you to track that radio signal and go after him from the first second he returned."  
"So what does it mean?" I asked, curious.  
"It means, John, that both of you must pay attention to what is real and what isn't. What is a real fact and real evidence, and not just something he planted to catch your attention. You must be careful." I nodded and Sherlock looked bored, as if this conversation didn't concern him.

The black car pulled up outside Baker Street, and Sherlock sighed with a faked smile, "Anything else dear brother? Maybe you would like to come in for some tea and biscuits? No? Oh, too bad," he said sarcastically and opened the door. "Next time you are interfering, please make sure that what you're about to say is relevant and as yet unknown. I know it's hard, but I believe in you." Sarcasm again. Doesn't really fit Sherlock.  
He opened the door and before he managed to get his leg out of the car, Mycroft yelled "Sit down Sherlock! And stop acting like a child; you are almost 40, for crying out loud!" Sherlock narrowed his eyes and clenched his teeth, like he was about to say something but figured it might be better to shut up this time. He closed the door and sighed heavily.

"Thank you." Mycroft got back to his nonchalant tone and cleared his throat. "We know how he did it. And yes, Sherlock, it is relevant. You see, the man you met on the roof was not James—for god sakes, Sherlock, let me finish!" Mycroft sighed in frustration, probably noting to himself that next time he should wait until Sherlock calm down completely before talking again.  
"It wasn't James; it was his brother, George. This means that James knew you weren't really dead all along; meanwhile, he was planning his revenge. You see, as far as James is concerned, you caused the death of his brother, the only person in the world that meant something to him. He wants revenge, Sherlock, and he is not going to rest until he gets it."  
"So you mean we should keep an eye on you? Keep you in custody or something? Because I really doubt it would help against Moriarty." I chocked back a bitter laugh while imagining what it would be like keeping Mycroft under observation. Mycroft was also smiling a bitter smile and he suddenly seemed tired and hurt, before forcing a cold and distant expression once again on his face.

"Of course not, Dr Watson. James wants to get his revenge on Sherlock by hurting the person Sherlock cares about the most." Both brothers now stared at each other in complete silence, having one of those usual speechless conversations that always made me feel pretty awkward and out of place. Sherlock shut his eyes in pain and Mycroft sighed, "I'm very sorry to say this, John, but you are definitely in danger. All of the others are just James's way to make it more playful and interesting, but the final intention is… well, hurting you." Everything seemed to blur. The world was spinning, and there was a cold ache in the pit of my stomach. Of course, how could I not have seen this before? The only way it is going to end is with my death. Moriarty wants _me_ dead. Mrs. Hudson, Janine, Molly and Lestrade are just tools. Just used for Moriarty's game. Nothing more than that. He never meant to kill them, Just abuse them a bit to scare Sherlock. All he wants is to kill me.

"John, are you ok?" Sherlock's voice shifted me back to reality, he seemed paler than usual and his eyes were full of dread. I was sure I saw tears in the corner of his eyes, but that was not possible. I've seen Sherlock cry many times before, crocodile tears, nothing was real about them, but now… it seems so…emotional. No way, I can't be the reason for those _real_ tears.  
"I'm sorry John, I'm so sorry. But it's not too late; you can still run away, you can fly to Paris. Be with your wife. John, you _will_ die." Sherlock's voice cracked and he seemed so vulnerable, more than I had ever seen him. My best friend was shivering and refusing to look at me; he was just staring out the window as if the answers to everything waited for him just outside. Probably commanding his body to relax and take control over his feelings.  
_Mind over matter._  
I felt someone must have stabbed my heart, while I watched him wiping the tears from his cheeks.  
He gave one more gaze at his brother, and Mycroft nodded slightly. It was almost unnoticeable.  
"Take care, John," he murmured and opened the door. Before I could even blink, he vanished inside the building and the car drove away.

"Where the hell is he going? Where are we going?" Oh please god, I can't leave Sherlock; I don't want to leave Sherlock.  
"I'm sorry, John, we are going to the airport." No. no, Please god, _no_. The hole inside my chest felt heavy, and I was sure I was about to throw up_. I can't leave Sherlock_.  
"Please, Mycroft, just take me back to Baker Street, please. I need to be with Sherlock. I can't lose him again. I almost lost him yesterday, and it was hard enough. "Please, Mycroft, take me back." He looked at me with pity in his eyes and sighed.  
"I'm sorry, John; It's for your own safety. You don't need to die for my brother. He wouldn't want that." The word 'with' lingered in the air. Somewhat threatening to replace the 'for'. It was clearer than ever.  
"I can save him. He won't die. Let me try, Mycroft. We saved each other so many times before, we can do it again." Mycroft didn't looked at me anymore, he refused to listen.  
My eyes burned with tears while I tried to hold them back. _Not now, it won't help_.

"Is this forever? Can you at least tell me why?" I tried to sound normal, but I could hear my voice trembling. Mycroft eyed me for a few moments, searching for more data. Finally, he nodded.  
"He wants to keep you safe, that must have been clear by now. But unfortunately, there is more to that. He knows that chances are you'll die, and he won't be able to live with it. He can't watch you die knowing he could have prevented it; that you could have been safe and happy with your family. He is not strong enough, he will break down and won't be able to defend himself and even fight against Moriarty. Can you possibly imagine Sherlock just going willingly to his own death, after all he has been through for the last 3 years? That is what will happen if Moriarty kills you first. It is somehow selfish maybe, but he just proved that he isn't a sociopath after all. He will do anything to destroy Moriarty, but more than that, he will do anything in his power to protect you, John."

I couldn't breathe. I could feel the agony spreading in my body and taking me down. Sherlock wanted to give up on me, because he will die if he won't. That is what he seems to think. I wanted to be there, I wanted to help Sherlock kill the bloody life-ruining psychopath, but I can't afford myself to be a distraction. Not if it means that Sherlock would get hurt.

We pulled up outside of Heathrow airport and Mycroft broke the awkward silence of the last 40 minutes.  
"Here is your ticket, I'm sure you can manage to get on the plane alone. Your flight is at 20:10, so hurry up. Your suitcase is in the trunk. Do you need help with it?"  
"No, thank you. Do you have my passport?" I really didn't mean to sound so bitter.  
"Oh yes, of course." He handed me my passport with an honest smile, "Take care, Dr. Watson, we'll be in touch." e I nodded briefly and opened the door, taking my suitcase and passport as well. As I looked back, the black Mercedes had already driven away and vanished, probably heading back to Little Chester Street, where Mycroft's office was.

I looked at the ticket, flight no. AM6044, Terminal 4. _Seems like I'm flying to Paris_.  
Even inside my head I sounded bitter. There is no need to be so broken.  
I walked inside the airport, gazing over the crowd of people who want to travel, see the world, be with their loved ones, just enjoying their life. I can even see that for some of them it was the first time, you can see the excitement in their eyes mixed with fear and doubt. All of them just reminded me how lonely I felt, and how it has only been an hour since I was with Sherlock. Only an hour, and I already miss him.

Text Messege  
From: John Watson  
To: Sherlock Holmes  
_I miss you. Promise me you won't die._

I deleted the 'I miss you' part, and hit the send bottom, already noticing that there are tears on my phone's screen. _Let it go John, Just for a few minutes, it's ok.  
_I stood there for a few minutes, letting the tears come down on my face, thinking about Sherlock, about the fact that he might not be alive when I return. That I lost my chance to tell him everything I might feel about him, that I might love him in more than just a platonic way. Who am I kidding? _I love him._ I know I do. I always knew.  
It is too late for that now, for so many reasons, but I wanted to tell him. I needed to tell him.  
_I would swallow my pride for you, Sherlock Holmes_.

I wiped the remaining tears from my face and took a deep breath. Promising myself that I'll come up with something, I learned a lot from Sherlock, I must come up with some ideas.  
I walked toward the check-in counter and greeted the young lady who smiled and took my passport.  
"One way ticket to Paris, please." She gave me a slight nod and handed me the ticket, sending my suitcase to Paris in a matter of seconds.  
"Terminal 4 sir, be there at 20:00 sharp, please. You can meanwhile go to the first-class lounge and relax," She smiled. "Thank you for choosing British Airways. Have a nice flight".  
I started walking toward the lounge, not completely surprised that Mycroft booked me a first-class seat, and realized I hadn't eaten since about 6 AM. I had an hour before I need to be in the terminal, I might as well go to the lounge and eat something.

I entered the beautiful, very expansively-decorated lounge, grabbed a newspaper and made some tea to go along with the delicious food that was there. (Bacon and cooked eggs, with some toast. Was amazing)  
When the clock showed 19:50, I figured it was time to go toward my gate, although I was relaxed and satisfied with a room full of food and tea. It even distracted me a bit from thinking about Sherlock, but it wasn't for long anyway.  
I went to the bathroom first, thinking it must be better than to go on the plane.

I was washing my hands when I heard a creepy voice behind me. "Just too easy, John."  
Before I had a chance to realize what was going on, the man behind me put a towel over my mouth and nose. I tried to struggle but when I recognized the strong smell of chloroform, I knew that fighting it was useless.

Within a minute I felt dizzy, and falling to the floor, I passed out. As I looked above me in those last seconds of consciousness, all I could see was the big psychopathic smile on the face of James Moriarty.


	7. Chapter 6, Part 1- Frustration

Chapter 6, Part 1- Frustration.  
Part 2 will be published in a couple of hours.  
Thanks for reading, don't forget to review. 

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Sherlock POV

I entered the empty flat, and for the first time in my life, I felt completely overwhelmed by emotions.  
The flat was chilly, as it ever is in this time of the year, and automatically I thought about turning on the heat so that John won't get too cold. He hates the chilliness in the apartment. But he isn't here now, is he. Nor he would ever return. I whipped the salty moist from my cheeks in anger. The agony filled every cell in my body, living me vulnerable like ordinary people often are in those situations. I never felt like this my entire life, and if I have, I was probably a child, and deleted the scenario long time ago.  
More than everything, I was frustrated. I was frustrated that Jim has returned, that both Mrs. Hudson and Janine are in the hospital because of me, that tomorrow Lestrade probably will get hospitalized too, and afterwards, Molly. I was frustrated that my so stupid, inconsiderate, excuse of a brother, must interfere with everything that important and meaningful to me. I was frustrated that I didn't get the chance to really kiss John, oh no. My brother had to stop that. He was concerned. Screw him.

Above all, I was frustrated that I had to let John go. I had to force him to leave me. Oh god, why did I do that? I kicked anything I could have, breaking all the plates and mugs that were on the coffee table, shooting the wall. It's not like Mrs. Hudson is coming to stop me now, is she? Yet nothing, nothing, made me feel better.  
"Is it too much to ask for?! A little distraction?!" I shouted at the empty flat, knowing that no one is going to answer me, and no one is going to provide me the distraction I'm craving for. The hell with it.

About an hour later, I received a text from John. 'Promise me you won't die.' If I thought, I was able to calm down the salty water leaking out of my eyes, receiving that text made me realize that nothing can close those bloody waterfalls. Especially nothing that will remind me of John. For god sake, this is pathetic.  
why didn't I kiss him? why? It was my last chance. The only thing that should matter now that he is safe. Far away from Moriarty. He's probably on his way to Paris by now, going to be with Mary for the rest of his life. She is the only person in the world that I could admit to myself that I'm envy at. She has John. She has the one thing, the one person that I really need in my life. That I truly love.

'Love'. Such a ridicules word. It was the main reason for people killing each other, hating each other, jealous each other, raping, biting, insulting, stabbing, cheating, and leaving each other. This word causes only harm, and so I refuse to call what I feel to John in that word.  
It is far more complicated than that. Far more serious and sincere than this simple, meaningless word.

I grabbed that bottle of scotch from the top shelf in the kitchen, and took 2 mouthful sips of the strong alcoholic drink. I wiped my mouth from the bitter taste and crushed on the sofa. Those few months I lived with John after Mary shot me, was possibly the best in my life. He was just with me. All day, aside from his boring work, we were together. We spent days together watching stupid shows on the telly, drinking tea, solving cases, and talking. Mostly talking. It was even better than before. And than those…feelings, that were already there, engorged. This obsession with everything that he does, anything he thinks, and anything he wants. As I said, ordinary people often call it love. It just shows how boring and superficial ordinary people were.  
I kept drinking until it was only enough for one last sip.  
Even before, I had those feelings toward John. He was the reason I came back from the first place. He was the reason that I always wanted to return. I looked at the almost empty bottle of scotch and sighed. Everything because of him, and drank the last bitter sip.

When I woke up the next day, it was half past 5 in the morning, I felt like my head was about to explode, and before I was capable of stopping myself I whispered John's name. Pathetic.  
I forced myself to get up from the couch and started crawling to the kitchen. Putting on the kettle, and trying to find one mug I didn't broke last night. Coffee was all I was able to think about, and maybe some aspirin to cool down the headache. I didn't have hangover like this since I was about 18, and that was a social experiment. Even after John's stag night it wasn't that awful of a headache.  
There wasn't even one justify reason for me this time. If John knew I got drunk last night he would be so disappointed.  
I felt something inside of me twitched in that thought. I missed John already, and the last thing I wanted to do was disappointing him and reminding him his own alcoholic sister.  
I could almost see John's disappointed face and the look on his face that means 'please change the subject', and how he looks around the kitchen and managing to yell 'you must eat something Sherlock, it is important' and walked away. Like he always does when he gets upset and think that I don't listen to him. Unfortunately, I developed a habit of always listening to him; awful, really.

On 6 am, on the minute, the radio in the middle of the living room started playing the "Swan Lake" by Tchaikovsky. I knew that I have about 20 minutes 'til the end of the piece and ran to the bathroom, showering as quickly as I was able to, and got dressed. When I was finally done dressing up, the last tunes of the piece were played, I ran back to the living room, so I won't miss a thing from the puzzle.  
Jim's voice was as loud and as creepy as always.

Well, well.  
What do we have here?  
The perfect D.I is about to disappear.  
Like a little young girl, wanting to dance,  
it's all belongs to the past.  
Don't forget to come dance Mr. Holmes  
It is going to be a lovely ball.

I grabbed my coat and put on my scarf while running down the stairs. As a matter of a habit, I was about to shout goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, and then remembered that she was in the hospital (because of me), so no one would answer. No one would say I shouldn't be that thrilled about some psychopath who tries, and to be honest quite successful, ruin my life.  
As I went outside of the building, I called my dear brother, thinking what I can say about Greg being abducted. When Mycroft finally picked up the phone, his usual nonchalant tone was gone, and instead, I could hear a clear panic in his voice.  
"Is it his turn?" he asked. I shouted my eyes and took a deep breath, for once, really felt for my brother.  
"yes"  
"where?"  
"33rd Seymour Street. There's a dancing studio there—"  
"Sherlock, run."  
Mycroft didn't have to say twice. I hang up the phone and started running toward Seymour Street, imagining the worst-case scenario of humiliation. It was clear to me that Moriarty would humiliate Lestrade in some way; I just hoped it's not going to be so bed. I wasn't really sure Mycroft would be able to deal with it properly if it were.

The dancing studio was the place of the murder on our first case. The victim was 15 years old ballet dancer. A state champion, her performance in Tchaikovsky's 'Swan Lake' started her young career.  
She was brutally raped and suffocated. It was a fascinating case, there were no evidence what so ever, but Lestrade and me, well, basically me, managed to catch the man responsible and arrest him.  
It was almost a decade ago, and seems like yesterday.  
I ran as fast as I could, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in my lungs, after months of being hospitalized. Within less than 5 minutes, I was already outside of the studio. Gasping for air but still aware that there's no time to waste. I promised Lestrade, and my brother, that I'd save him.  
When I opened the door to the studio, I saw one of the most horrible things I saw in my life.  
Greg Lestrade was lying on the floor in nothing but a ballet's tutu skirt, surrender by blood, and on his chest was engraved "secretly gay".  
I approached the unconscious man on the floor, and on his face, you could have seen traces of tears. One blunt force trauma to the head. Probably didn't caused intracranial hemorrhage. His pulse surprisingly steady, pupils equal and reactive to light. There isn't any sign of nothing more serious than a mild concussion, except of course the marks on his chest, which wasn't deep enough to hurt any organs but was deep enough to leave a very clear, permanent "secretly gay" scar.

I heard heavy steps behind me, knew who was standing behind me.  
"Is he still alive?"  
I turned around to see my brother, the great Mr. Mycroft Holmes, crying quietly, with an almost apathetic expression on his face. The only sign that indicate he was suffering was the tears come down on his cheeks.  
He whipped the tears quickly and asked again "is he?"  
I nodded and tried to give him a comforting smile, but it quickly fade when Mycroft first notice the marks on Lestrade. His eyes widen with shock and fear and he was shivering.  
"Go outside Sherlock" he said firmly.  
"I called D.I Dimmock, he is on his way with the ambulance. You have about 2 minutes."  
I was about to leave the studio when I heard the weak voice of my brother saying thank you.  
I wasn't sure if I was supposed to say something further, but we had no time, we have to go to the hospital as soon as possible, and if Mycroft wants a few moments alone with his boyfriend, than he deserves them.

It was only an hour later when Mycroft and I sat down, in the waiting room in St. Barts, holding cheap- hospital coffee in our hands, when I fully realized the horrible situation.  
The humiliation my old friend had suffered by the devil, James Moriarty.  
The 'Secretly gay' on Lestrade's chest truly made me shiver in guilt and pity. There was no doubt that Moriarty rose up to the next, shockingly awful, level of humiliation.  
How could he possibly know? Mycroft and Lestrade kept their little secret from everyone for at least 7 months. I was the only one who knew, and I didn't tell anyone, and not Mycroft or Lestrade was eager to share their relationship with the world. They didn't even noticed I knew.

"How long do you know?" Mycroft's voice broke the convenient silence.  
"Since the mayfly man case. How long is it been going on?"  
"Since you came back." There was a long silence and Mycroft was defiantly struggling with himself about what he should or shouldn't say. Finally, he continued, "How did you find out? I was absolutely sure that no one knows" he seemed very un-like himself. He seemed weak, and tired. He doesn't really cared about how I know, I'm highly convinced that Mycroft just tried to find something to talk about, just so he can forget about his partner that was laying on the bed in the emergency room.

"That morning Lestrade got me and John out of custody. Nor John or I called him. I only called you and yes, I was a bit...you know, but when I called you I heard Lestrade voice on the background asking if he should get dressed. When I asked you who was it you told me you don't remember his name and you mumbled. You never mumble. And overall, you've become a very sentimental man lately, I figured it was because you finally found your... Well... Goldfish, as you called it the other day. I'm very happy for you by the way, next time pay attention to my suggestions before you are too old and bitter to accomplish them, Lestrade is already too good for you."

Mycroft was quiet for a long moment and I was quite happy that this far too awkward conversation was over. Sentiment never was the strong side of our family.  
"Thank you Sherlock, for calling me"  
He murmured quietly. It was embarrassing enough for him to thank me; it was clear he never meant to say it out loud.  
"Of course, you would do the same if I had someone. Wouldn't you?"  
"Yes, yes of course. Which reminds me; when are you going to tell the poor man about your feelings?"  
"There is nothing to tell"  
"Really? How about the fact that you are in love with him since the day you met him? Five years Sherlock!" Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes. "Please tell me that you realized those feelings sooner than last week."  
I knew that was no point denying anything, saying I don't care for Watson like he probably assumed I'll react. It is clear that he just need to find a way to make us equally weak and sentimental. Although, it was obvious that he has become much more sentimental, than I would ever managed to be. "3 years. But I know for sure only for the last few months."

"I'm sorry for you Sherlock" I raised my eyebrow and looked at my brother with questioning look. I didn't get what's his point.  
"You ran out of chances Sherlock, you never told him how you feel, you have never done anything to show him you want him… I'm sorry for you, that you'll never get another chance with him." I started feeling anger ran through my veins. He really should mind his own bloody business.  
"I know you have Lestrade, but I don't need your pity. As long as he's safe I'll be alright. Don't concern yourself with my emotions. "

"I was just saying—"  
"Than stop. I don't need to hear this. Tell Lestrade I'm sorry for what happened, and that I'll come to see him later."  
I got up from my seat and throw my very bad-tasted coffee, hating and envy my brother at that very hard moment. He was right. God, I hate it when he's right. I'll probably never find anyone like John, and I really didn't want to. John was more than enough and no one can convince me that he's one among many. He's Dr John Watson. He's one of a kind.  
"He loves you too, you know"

"I don't need your pity Mycroft, there's no need to say such things" He really should stop saying things to make me feel better; I'm not a child anymore.  
Mycroft sighed and turned to the emergency room, to see Lestrade, leaving me in the waiting room, as he should have done long time ago.

If it was John in that room, I wouldn't spend a second being with my brother in the waiting room. I would have sit by his bed and take care of him, making sure that he knows I'm there for him. Exactly as he did after Mary shot me. He slept at the hospital, held my hand, talked to me even though I was unconscious. He never left my side at the hospital. And if it was the other way around, I would have done that either. I was quite surprised at this recognition. No one was that important that I would waste all my time talking and holding a hand of an unconscious man. Except John. John was the exception for everything.

On my way to Baker Street, all I could think about was what Mycroft said; 'he loves you too…'. What If Mycroft wasn't lying? What if…? Does it even matter? John was gone, with Mary, which he most defiantly loves. I have no chance. Nothing.  
It was too late.


	8. Chapter 6, Part 2- A Day With A Psycho

**Chapter 6, Part 2- First Day In The Dungeon**

Attention- character death in this chapter.

* * *

**John POV**

"John... Johnny boy... Wake up Johnny" Moriarty's voice filled every cell in my body and made me shiver to my bone. His voice made me remember all things I went through because of this monster. I hoped I was dreaming, yet I knew it was far from this. It's a nightmare becoming reality.

I tried to open my eyes but everything hurts too much... My head, what the hell has he done to me?

"Easy there Johnny, no rush"

"Where am I?" my voice was still husky from the chloroform and I was exhausted even though I knew that I must have slept for at least a few hours.

"Welcome to my humble home" Moriarty said proudly, "unfortunately, I'm not able to show you around. You see, I'm busy making Sherlock dance a bit"

I fought the pain and opened my eyes; all I could see around me was a brick-wall room, probably some kind of a dungeon. The room was barley lighted by the small lamp in Moriarty's hand. The man himself hasn't changed a bit in the last 3 years. He was wearing a dark blue suit, Westwood, like the one from the pool, his hair slightly longer and messier. He eyed me with his extremely psychopath look, and his frightening smile. It was like a horrible nightmare. His gaze went up and down my body, making me feel exposed and uncomfortable. I followed his gaze with a questioning look of my own and first noticed that my ankles and wrists are in chains. I began struggling and felt panic rising up my body.

"Oh Johnny boy, you know there's no use to panic, you have more than 2 days before Sherlock will stop by and he'll save his damsel in distress." James stroked my cheek with his cold finger and I shook my head forcibly to make him stop, even though every movement made me want to scream with pain.

"Stop. Talking." I murmured angrily.

"Behave, John. Don't you care about your hero? If I'll kill you now than there will be no point to wait on killing him, and this all thing will become very less interesting." He seemed too much satisfied with himself, too proud, and I knew that I'm probably missing something.

"Don't hurt Sherlock. Leave him alone. I'm here, kill me, and leave him alone." I looked the psychopath in the eyes. Trying to discover what may come next. Knowing that my wish will probably won't be answered.

"So noble, so brave... I understand why he loves you so much, I do. However, you John…you deserves much more than just die. You deserve to suffer, to watch your little pathetic life fall apart, to cry your dull, ordinary heart out. Do you know why? Because you _ruined_ Sherlock Holmes. He was so acute, so brilliant, so _perfect_, but then you weakened him, you made him _soft_ and _sentimental_. You disgust me" Moriarty spit on me and walked out of the room, leaving with the only source of light.

As Moriarty left, the room went completely dark, and opening my eyes seems useless. Is he going to torture me on the next couple of days? Probably. I didn't care much, really. I'm sure nothing he can do to me is somehow worse or more painful than what I've been through in Afghanistan.

No, the torture thing didn't bother me so much. Not at all, compare to that Moriarty's trying to drag Sherlock here, and kill him. I can't let that happen. Sherlock is far too important to die like this, and I definitely can't watch him die. As hard it is to acknowledge it, I really have deep feelings for the bastard, and watching him die… even knowing that he's in danger is killing me from the inside. It's not like I'm about to get out of here soon, so facing the truth, at least to myself, is completely necessary if I want to try and save Sherlock.  
Unfortunately, I know Sherlock far too well to know that in the minute he'll know that I've been abducted by Moriarty, he will be here within minutes.

For once, I really wish that Sherlock will behave like a selfish git, as he is with other people, and won't fall into Moriarty's trap.

After hours of sitting alone in this dungeon, in the dark, I came into one, very important Conclusion; Moriarty is planning something big, there's no doubt in that. But no matter what he's planning, I won't let him hurt Sherlock. I will find something. I can do this. I'm Capitan John Watson, of course I can do this.

It was an amazing fact that less than 24 hours ago I was about to kiss Sherlock. I already felt his soft lips gently brushing mine before Mycroft interrupted. I almost hate Mycroft now. He never should have separate me from Sherlock. We could have figured it out together; there would be more chance for the both if us to survive this. But no. Mycroft had to interfere. I would have done a lot worse than kissing Sherlock if it meant I was able to stay with him. I would have done a lot worse than kissing him regardless. I suppressed that thought and closed my eyes.

* * *

"Johnny wake up boy, good morning. I brought you something to eat, I'm sure you're starving, and we want you in your best shape for our little game with your lover-boy" I opened my eyes from what seems like a very long sleep, to see Moriarty standing above me while I'm lying on the floor of his dungeon. He was holding on a plastic plate, which, by the smell, contained some cooked eggs and fresh bread. I didn't even noticed how hungry I was until I felt my throat get dry of thinking and smelling food.  
"Bon apatite Doctor, I'll be back soon. Have a nice day" He placed the plate on the floor and it seemed wonderful; so fresh and normal. I was a bit concerned if the food was poisoned, but I knew that Moriarty, as he said, wants to keep me alive for his 'game' with Sherlock. Even though the food did seemed marvels, there was still one more thing on my mind that forced me to wait a while longer before eating it all, one thing I had to ask.

"Wait! Where is my wife? Is she here too?" Moriarty turned around and looked at me for a while, thinking. He wasn't smiling his usual smile, he just seemed a bit hurt, he almost looked human.  
"A little advice Johnny" he whispered, "don't ask things that you don't really want to know."  
My heart stopped with dread.  
"What is that supposed to mean?! Answer me!" I shouted at the psychopath who was on his way to leave the dungeon and stopped at the doorstep. He took a deep breath and shook his head.  
"It wasn't planned, but your daughter is ok" and he stepped back into the hallway leading upstairs, leaving me again in the dark.

What is that supposed to mean? How could it be that my daughter is safe and my wife isn't? it is too early for her to give birth, she's only 7 month pregnant! The baby is probably sick if they did a preterm birth! Why would they do that? Why would they save the baby and kill the mother? It's not possible.  
I took a few deep breaths and tried to think reasonably, maybe Mary is just a bit sick, and he meant that Mary is sick but the baby is good far along.  
Deep down I knew it wasn't true. Something bad must have happened to Mary, she was supposed to be part of the trap, that's why he said 'it wasn't planned'. I didn't want to believe that. Mary can't be dead, she is my wife, _my wife, she cannot be dead! _I felt the steaming tears in my eyes and cried in the dark for what felt like a few, very long hours, I was grieving on my newly wife, whom I just married, not so long ago. The mother of my little baby a few hours, Moriarty came back in the room, holding a plate, which probably contained the same food from the morning; he placed the plate in front of me, and started going back toward the door. I was sure he already left when I heard him whisper again, "I really didn't mean to" his whisper filled the little room and echoed.

I looked at where I assumed he was standing, he didn't brought the lamp with him this time. It was all too dark to see my own hand. "How and why?" I asked him, whispering. It remained silent for a few minutes and I was sure he already left. I used my sense of touch to find the plate with the food and began to eat.

About what seemed like an hour later, I heard his voice again, burst out of the darkness.  
"When the plane landed here, and I only found her, I was frankly surprised, I never thought you would leave your wife for Sherlock, but there she was, and quite a little beast. She yelled and struggled, we all knew who she was, we all knew her reputation, but I figured it was best to keep the plan running until I'll find you and that everything would be just as I expected; the both of you here, and your little knight, your beloved prince charming, will be coming to save you. Everything went perfectly well until the night came and she tried to escape, very brave of her, obviously. Very ambitious. I was away unfortunately, so one of my stupid assistants gave her very bad hit to the head, she bleeded internally. I sent her to surgery as soon as possible but she didn't make it. I know it seems horrible, but the surgeons succeed to save the baby. She is fine, incubated, of course, but alright. Very healthy baby girl."

I started crying without control. Mary, my Mary, my brave Mary… _she is dead_. Even though I already knew she was dead, it was different to hear Moriarty say it. Suddenly, it was real. Another person died because of James Moriarty. I never should have left her, never should have let her go by herself .I thought I was saving her when I just sent her to her death.  
I didn't need to source of light to know that Moriarty was no longer in the room. I can cry alone, I can grieve- for now. Until Sherlock will get here, and I'll make him pay. I will make James Moriarty pay for killing my wife, for ruining my life, for taking Sherlock away from me for 2 whole years, for everything he has ever done to Mary, Sherlock and me. _Everything_.

A few hours later, he returned, this time, with the little lamp. He looked exhausted, and not as proud and cheerful as he was the night before. He was holding a bottle of water under his arm and a plate with food in his hand. Once again, he placed the plate with the bottle on the floor next to me, but this time, he also sat on the floor. Right across me.  
"Eat" he said firmly and guarded me with his eyes. I ate the fresh bread with great pleasure, refusing to think about Mary or Sherlock, or my newborn daughter in front of Moriarty.  
"So, do you want to hear about today's events?" He asked, sounded like himself again. Frightened, I nodded.  
"D.I Lestrade is in St. Barts, Mycroft and Sherlock had a huge fight, and Janine was released from the hospital and on her way to your, well, Sherlock's apartment. She is fine, really. Told you I was nice to her." I couldn't help myself but frown.  
"If you were nice to her there wouldn't be any reason for her to get hospitalized to begin with. What they were fighting about this time?" Moriarty smiled broadly.  
"About you. Mycroft thinks that since he has a boyfriend that he's an expert in relationships. Oh and they were really caring and sentimental and everything. You know, because of the D.I. Sherlock sat with him in the hospital for hours. They almost looked like normal siblings." He smirked and eyed me closely, as if he was trying to understand my reaction.

I didn't say a word until he left the room, annoyed, leaving me again with nothing but the darkness. Finally, I thought he would never leave. I didn't believe a word he said, except only that also Greg is now in the hospital, taking care of by doctors. I knew that it can only mean that tomorrow, it is Molly's turn. Poor girl, god knows what is waiting for her, she did helped Sherlock with the whole suicide thing, he might actually kill her. Revenge for helping him survive.  
Too many people are going to die, have died, suffered and tortured because of James Moriarty.

All I could concentrate right now was the simple, general plan about what was going to happen- First, I'll save Sherlock, I'll do whatever I can to save him so he will survive this. Other than that, soon, very soon, I'm going to destroy Moriarty till there won't be any reminder of him to the world.  
Nothing besides memories and nightmares.  
James Moriarty will die, will be exterminated, will be completely _destroyed_, by no other than myself, and my best friend, Sherlock Holmes- even if it's the last thing we'll do. We will do it together.


	9. Chapter 7- A Human Comfort

_After I tried to upload this chapter about a dozen times from my iPhone, I realized that the only way it's going to be published properly is from my computer. _  
_So, as much as I wish to update this story on a daily basis, I'm in the army, which means I only have a computer once every a week or two- Sorry!_  
_I wanted to say that I'm completely moved by your comments, and they give me lots of motivation! so thank you so much!_  
_and now, here's the chapter you've all been waiting for;_

**Chapter 7- A Human Comfort**

* * *

**Sherlock Pov**

The last 3 days passed so quickly, that I felt like they were some kind of a very long nightmare.

Just 3 days ago, I was about to leave the great kingdom, and go on to Eastern Europe, where only god knew what was expecting me. Just yesterday, John was still with me, I still hugged him, I almost kissed him. Just yesterday. Everything seemed much easier yesterday, when he was next to me. I can already get used to the pathetic sensation that following me everywhere I go, when I think about him.

I picked up the phone and dialed his number, just wanting to make sure that he arrived safely to Paris, that everything is alright with both, him and Mary, trying to convince myself that it's not because I miss him, but everyone seems to know the truth, maybe I should face it too.

His phone's off. Probably he and Mary are just having some holiday-sex/thank-god-we're-alive-sex. Damn it. I cannot believe I actually envy them. Well, envy Mary. Oh for god sakes, there are better things to do than mull about John's sex life.

I had better things to do; I needed to think about Moriarty, where am I going to find him, and about his next possible victim- Molly.

Text to: Molly Hopper  
From: Sherlock Holmes  
'Are you ready?'

Text to: Sherlock Holmes.  
From: Molly Hopper.  
'Yes. Everything is set. Take care, Sherlock. Call me if you'll need any help.'

It is hard to think. I know that Molly will do fine; she is smart enough to deal with the plan with started planning since the day I came back, just in case that someone will come after her. It was time for her own face death, which is an easy enough task, since she works at the morgue. But I still couldn't think straight. Something is utterly wrong, but what is it?

When I picked up the violin few minutes later to relax, there were knocking on the front door.  
I opened the door to see, the beautiful as ever, Janine. She was crying hysterically and she was gasping for air and tried to control herself, but without much luck. She was obviously in distress and came here to make me feel bad, for what was, practically, my fault. Janine just stood there, in the doorstep, for a few minutes, crying her heart out. I tried to hug her, but she just slapped me instead. I guess I deserve that.

I felt completely hopeless of course, watching her cry like that, knowing it's my fault, and yet there was nothing I can do to help, or could have done at the time.

"Janine, I'm sorry, for everything." She eyed me for a minute and went pass me into the cold flat.

"Tea would do for now" she said as she collapsed on the couch, trying again to regain her focus back.

I went to the kitchen and put on the kettle, making tea as I remembered she liked it- strong without milk, with a lot of sugar.

She was sitting on the couch in complete silent. Finally, after a few minutes, she stopped crying and started to calm down. I gave her the cup of tea and sat next to her, trying to understand what she was doing here, and maybe, just maybe, convince her to talk about what happened, and how. It was important to me to know everything that happened that day, how it started, where was she when she was kidnapped, if Jim himself have done all this horrible things to her. It wasn't critical for the game, it was all history anyway, and I can't even explain why, I just need to know.

"He thought it was funny, you see. He read all those articles about our sex-life, all the '7 times a night in Baker street'… so he thought it would be funny to undress me. It was humiliating Sherlock." She paused and took a few deep breath, trying to avoid another panic attack. "When he made me read this stupid riddle, I was sure I was about to die! Do you have any idea how frightening that was?!" she pulled me closer to her and leaned her head on my chest. She started crying again, more calmly though. I stroke her hair as gently as I could, trying to comfort her, trying to ask for her forgiveness without speaking. Her tears wetted my shirt, but I didn't really mind, I just wanted to get this over with, to stop her from crying and promise her, without words, that everything will be alright from now on.

What I didn't anticipate is that moment one she stopped crying and raised her head so she could look me in the eyes. I know that look; the look of lust and sentiment.

Before I knew it, she was already kissing me hard and started reposition herself, and within seconds, she was sitting in my lap. It wasn't the first time Janine nearly raped me out of the blue, but it was different than, we were together. We were a couple, even if it was only for a short time. It's different now, we haven't seen each other for more than six months, we aren't together and I haven't done anything sexual since. I kissed her back as passionately as I managed. Knowing that she needs this, she needs love, comfort, desire, and "steaming hot" (as Janine always says) sex. Normal people often find sex as a comfort, and if that what she needed, it was the least I could do in the circumstance.

There we were, on the couch, most of our cloths were already vanished, as she whispered my name repeatedly. It was then, when I figured that I can't do that. As much as I want to comfort her, and make her happy (because, let's face it, it's my fault she is here to begin with) I just _can't_ do that.

I tried to call her and tell her to stop, but it seems she only saw it as a gesture of desire. She was already naked on top of me when I finally managed to make her listen and pull her away.

"What's wrong?" She asked, trying to breathe normally again. I swallowed hard and couldn't believe that I'm turning her down now. Hurting her again was really, one of the fewest things on my mind.

"Janine, I just... Can't." She stood up, her eyes wide and her cheeks and ears red with embarrassment. She put her clothes back on and tossed me mine. We dressed in silence, and she went to the kitchen, putting on the kettle again. She leaned on the counter, staring at the floor. After a long moment of silent, she asked, with a trembling voice, why.

"Do you really want to know?" She straightens up so she was facing me, looking me in the eyes, and nodded.

"John Watson." Is all in needed to say and all the embarrassment, anger and lust disappeared from her face, and instead she was giggling and smiling broadly.

"So you finally figured it out than? It's about damn time! I'm so happy for you Sherly" she came back from the kitchen and hugged me, still giggling. I was utterly confused, which made her start laughing even louder "Oh, come on Sherl, everyone knows you love him, it's about time you'd confess it to yourself."

"Yeah yeah, I got that part. But why are you _happy_ for me?" I smiled wryly, "he is happily married with Mary."

Janine stopped laughing and just smiled with sympathy in her eyes. "I know, but don't you think it's better than hiding it? You should tell him... The rumor says that he is madly in love with you even more."

"_The rumor says_...? Does _everyone_ knows?!"

"Of course love, you two are so obviously in love with each other. Both of you completely blind to each other's feelings and your own, but everyone saw it since day one. Even Mary told me that she's a bit afraid that John might leave her for you after you came back."

I looked at her completely shocked. How could I have not seen this? I heard what people said about us being a couple, but I never gave it much thought until recently. I most certainly didn't thought that _everyone_ thought so. That everyone saw what I didn't let myself see for a few years. I felt like a goddamn fool.

"Don't be so hard on yourself Sherly, sometimes we rather ignore our own feelings to protect ourselves. It's natural."

"I don't do natural." She chuckled and rolled her eyes at me, as if she was trying to say 'surprise, you arse.'

"Well, seems like now you do... It's ok Sherly, being in love is magical. And who knows... Maybe if you'll tell him-"

"He is gone. There's nothing to tell. I probably never going to see him again, so let's not waste our time talking about it." She didn't say anything for a few long minutes. Well, it's not like there was something to say. She just hugged me tightly again. When I tried to let go, she just tightened her hold on me.

There was nothing to say.

* * *

Janine left about an hour later, an hour that we mostly just hugged each other, comforting each other with a tight embrace. The rest of the time, she asked about John, why am I not going to see him again, and if Moriarty got him too. I was shivering with dread by just thinking about that possibility. I told her everything, when I first figured it all out, about the letter I never gave him, about what happened after Jim returned, and about the almost-kiss. When we got to the part that I had to give up on John for his own safety, I felt that cursed lump in my throat.

She promised me that everything is going to be 'fine' and that the both of us will find a solution.

I wanted to say to her that there is nothing we can do, but she seemed so determined, it was almost encouraging, I couldn't take that naive hope from her.

Still can't stop thinking about John. I tried to call him again but his phone was still off. I began to think that something bad might have happened, but superseded that thought. I'm sure he's just fine, hanging out in Paris. Probably barely thinking about me, if he is thinking about me at all.

I remember that time 2 years ago, when I came back just to see if he's alright. It was about 5 months after he tried to kill himself. He was on his first date. One of many. The woman was much taller than him, but attractive. She has a kind face, a bit childish even, and she even seemed to like him. He tried to look like he wants her, but if you knew him as I do, you would know that he didn't even tried to like her, he just tried to sleep with her, which he did. It was very hard to watch that date; it was as if moved on. It was the first time I found myself completely jealous. Too bad it wasn't the last one.

In a perfect world, he would be right here, sitting next to me, watching some stupid sitcom series on the television. He would make tea for the both of us and force me to eat something. He would hug and kiss me as if I'm the only one in the world deserves his affection, and I would kiss him back, because he's the only one that I want his affection, that I want him to love me and that I'll love him back. In my perfect world, he isn't married (unless it is with me), he loves me and wants to be next to me until death.

But, as even the stupidest people on earth knows, this world is not perfect. I would never get the only person I truly love and care about. Again, feeling the horrible lump in my throat, I went upstairs to John's old room. Everything stayed just as he left it when he moved back to the suburban with Mary.

His jumpers was still in the closet, on his nightstand there's a picture of him and Harry, and next to the picture was the letter I wrote him, just a few days ago, which he didn't had the chance to read.

I opened the envelope with the letter and sat on the edge of John's bed. Taking a deep breath as I read, for the hundred time, at least, the letter.

"_My dear John _

_As sad as it is, this is my last words to you._  
_ All those things, I wanted to say to you personally, face to face, but unfortunately, I didn't have the courage. _  
_ I'm not like you John, I don't have the courage to face emotional situations, and I'm sorry about that, because maybe, if I were, everything would turn out differently._

_Never mind that. _

_Since the day we met I knew that you would change my life; I didn't know how, and why, but I was right. You changed my life, John, you changed me. _

_You, John Watson, you are the only reason that I'm still alive. The only reason I want to live. That makes me want to fight for my life. I had no one in my life until I had you, and it just made me see that all the other people was, as I always thought, boring and superficial, annoying and stupid. But you weren't. You are the only exception to all of my rules. _

_You are, the one person in the world, which I really adore, and look up to. _

_You are so smart, acute, brave, loyal, and my best friend in the world. You'll be my best friend until the day I die. You are the one for me, in any possible way. _

_Frankly, I would rather die than live without you. _

_I want you to know that I never really left you when I 'died'. Once every 2-3 months I came back, just to see you. I wanted to tell you so many times, I almost have told you, but I knew I couldn't, because your safety is above any sentiment in the world. _

_The day you tried to kill yourself was the most awful day in my life, but I owe it everything. Because that day was the day, I realized how I feel about you, and how deep those emotions are. I sat next to your hospital bed the entire time you were out, and I realized everything. It was unbelievable. _

_This time, I won't be able to come visit and to make sure you're OK, and this is really the hardest thing I had to do in my entire life; Saying goodbye to you, forever. _

_Please, take care. _

_John, there aren't so many ways to say it, and I want it to be the last words you'll ever remember from me. _

_John Watson, I love you." _

The letter was stain with teardrops and most of the letters became blurry because of them.

It didn't matter really, It wasn't like anyone is going to read it any way. Despite that annoying fact, I put the letter back in the envelope and on the nightstand.

I lay down on John's bed, hugging his pillow as if it was John himself, closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, smelling John's smell. The combination of tea, shampoo, sweat and something you can only describe as John. This is the smell of home, of friendship, of anything important. It was all _John_.

It was 3 am when the phone waked me up and I woke up from that wonderful dream about John. Waking up in his bed, surrender by his smell, I was sure I was still dreaming until I opened my eyes and saw that I'm all alone in that bed.

I answered the phone call more frustrated and angry that I've ever been over the last year.

"What?"

"Good evening to you too, little brother." Mycroft. What does _he_ wants?!

"Evening? Have you seen the hour? It's almost morning."

Mycroft sighed and changed into his deadly-serious tone "Just listen, it is important"

"Is Lestrade ok?"

"Yeah yeah we are fine... Listen, well... There isn't any good way to say it..."

"Just talk already." I heard Lestrade on the background saying that there's no time to waste, and that he should do it already. I was the moment I really found myself terrified. What could have happened that is so horrible?

"John didn't get on the plane, but no one seen him anywhere, and now I checked, and Mary didn't make it to Paris. I think that I know where John is but Mary absolutely disappeared." I started to feel how every cell and nerve in my body suddenly froze with dread. I can believe this is happening. It has to be a nightmare; I had so many of those. It has to be, but it isn't.

"Are you telling me, that you forced me to give up on John and send him _away for his own safety_, so he can be kidnapped and god knows what by James Moriarty? Is this what you're telling me?"

Mycroft cleared his throat, "I'm sorry Sherlock"

"Send me the damn address. I'm done listening to any of your suggestions and 'solutions' until the day I die. If John is… if something happened to him because I sent him away, like you said I should, I will kill you."

"Sher-"

I hung up the phone ad ran down the stairs and into my room, changing to a suitable clothes as fast as I could, and just in time I got the address for where John possibly is.

It was a place just outside of London, about a hour and a half drive.

John. The only thing that important is that I'll get to John in time. For once and for all, I'm going to kill Moriarty with my own hands.

No one is hurting _my_ John.


	10. Chapter 8- End Of An Era

_**Hey everyone!  
This chapter was really the hardest yet, but I owe my thanks to the amazing Old Ping Hai for beta this chapter.  
Enjoy! And don't forget to review ;)**_

* * *

**Chapter 8- The End Of An Era**

**John POV**

Another night is passing quietly in the dark dungeon. It is incredibly cold, and I am bloody thirsty. I have already given up on sleeping, with the cold and the train of thought that refuses to stop, even for a few hours.

Yet, I am grateful that so far, I haven't been bitten or humiliated much. Moriarty is really trying to save it all to the end. It has become pretty much clear that Moriarty doesn't plan to hurt me until Sherlock comes.

Well, at least physically. It was fairly obvious that he's trying to break me mentally, with all those stories about what happened and what's going to happen.

Even though my main concern is what will happen to Sherlock when he comes here, I can't stop thinking about my baby girl who was born just a few days ago. _I'm a father_.

It feels fantastic, but also quite horrible, because I'm not really sure that I'll ever get a chance to meet her.

When Moriarty came visit me just about an hour or so ago, I asked him about that. I requested to meet my little baby before I die. It was a perfectly reasonable request that not even a psychopath like Moriarty could easily ignore. And so, he smiled and promised me he'd bring her here when Sherlock comes.

I also asked him, what if Sherlock killed him before that. He just smiled, this crocked smile of his, and told me that my daughter is actually at St. Barts, and 'good luck with that'. It was quite a relief, though, to know that if I'm able to get out of here, I'll know where she is. But that was, unfortunately, a big "_if_".

I've finally managed to get some sleep, when I hear loud noises from outside the dungeon. A glimmer of hope, and (unavoidable) dread begins to grow in the pit of my stomach. I feel like I am burning from the inside out, afraid of who is expecting me outside that door.

Before I am able to figure out what am I going to do if the man behind this door _is_ Sherlock, one of Moriarty's minions comes into the room with a bag in his hands, and pulls it over my head so I won't be able to see anything.  
Definitely Sherlock, then.

After a few minutes, I hear another pair of footsteps in the room, and chains that probably serve the same purpose as they do with me.  
"When the master wakes up he will deal with the both of you." I don't recognize the voice, but it isn't really hard to guess that it is one of Moriarty's minions.  
The man closes the door and the deadly silence returns to the dungeon.

Even if it is Sherlock in this dungeon with me, there isn't really anything to say. I think we are both a bit overwhelmed by this situation, and even though I have been getting ready for this for the last 2 days, it isn't at all as I pictured it. But then again, maybe it's for the best, as I always get ready for the worst case scenario.

"John?" Sherlock's voice is trembling in a way I have rarely heard over the years. It is his 'completely vulnerable and exposed voice'. The one that makes my heart twitch with pain.  
"I'm right here." I try to sound comforting and reassuring, but my voice is as unstable and scared as Sherlock's.  
"Are you all right?"  
"Yes, I know it's kind of cold, but the food is great." I earn a quiet giggle and that is really worth everything that has happened in the last couple of days.  
"And Mary?" Sherlock finally asks, but by the sound of his voice you can tell that he already knows the answer. I remain silent for a couple of seconds, and Sherlock doesn't push. It is going to be the first time that I say it out loud, and it is harder than in my mind.  
"Dead," I finally say and exhaled loudly; I don't even notice I have been holding my breath. Sherlock sighs and says that he's sorry; I say that so am I, and the silence goes on for what feels like at least an hour.

"Rachel is alive though."  
"Who's Rachel?" he asks, probably wondering how that can be relevant right now.  
"My baby girl." Sherlock is quiet for a while, but then finally asks how is that possible, so I tell him everything Jim told me; about what happened to Mary and how the baby was saved, and that she was incubated and hospitalized at Bart's.  
For once, he is quiet; I can tell that he's listening carefully, really listening. Now and then he asks a few questions, showing his interest and concern as a friend, but other than that, he is really untypically quiet.

But then he asks the question I really hoped he wouldn't: "Why Rachel?"  
"I don't know if you remember but she was the daughter of the victim on our first case together… I thought it was quite symbolic. You know, because she never knew her daughter, and odds are that I'll never meet mine as well."  
"Don't say that. I promise you, you will meet her," Sherlock's voice begins trembling even more, and it sounds like he is trying to control himself again.

"I can't raise her by myself Sherlock; I have to work and take care of her, and I really prefer not to let some random women raise her."  
"So? What do you prefer? Let her live in this mansion with Moriarty and his minions? Great idea, John. Too bad that Moriarty is going to die soon enough. Or shall we spare his life so he can raise her? I'm sure he'll be a great father." He really should cut out with the sarcasm.  
"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock, it doesn't suit you at all." We are both yelling now, releasing some steam on the only person we feel comfortable enough to do so.  
"Now I'm the ridiculous one? You are giving up on your daughter and _I'm_ the ridiculous one?!"  
"Oh, for god sakes, Sherlock! I'm not giving up on Rachel! I'm just not sure how I can possibly be a good father if I have to raise her alone!"  
"But you won't raise her alone!"  
"With who then?!"  
"With me." After all that yelling around, Sherlock's voice doesn't sound louder than a whisper. What did he just say?

"I'm… hmm..." Sherlock was mumbling, he _never_ mumbles," I just thought that… I know it will probably be hard on you, at least at the beginning, and I want you to know that I'll be happy to help… if you need me to… I mean…"  
"Thank you. I will be happy to get some help."

"Rachel, then?" he says and I can hear him smiling, despite the recent events and the whole, frankly terrifying, situation.  
"Rachel," I smile back, because in this moment, in this dark and cold dungeon, there is only the comfort of the bright future as we picture it, and nothing else matters.

The relaxing, comforting silence remains until dawn.

* * *

The door to the dungeon opens noisily, and it isn't hard to guess who is on that doorstep.

"Good morning, boys, rise and shine," I hear footsteps approaching my direction, and all of sudden the bag over my head is gone and I open my eyes to see Jim, creepier than ever, and Sherlock, who seems like he has not slept for days.  
"How was the little reunion? I thought you'd prefer a couple of hours alone," Jim is bouncing around the room and just increasing my already unbearable headache.

Sherlock and I are smiling bitterly, but we both know better than to speak up. Sherlock winks at me while Jim is looking at me, and it makes my smile go wider.  
Jim notices of course, and he is practically glowing.  
"Oh, isn't that sweet! Young love… so charming. So Sherlock, did you tell him already?" Sherlock's smile fades, and his eyes express something between- 'don't you dare' and 'I have no idea what you're talking about'.

"Oh you didn't…well, don't worry, I brought all the equipment needed," Jim pulls out of his pocket an envelope, and Sherlock goes pale as a complete contrast to the wall behind him. I can't help but be extremely confused and curious.  
Jim opens the envelope, clears his throat, and begins reading the letter as dramatically as only he can.

"My dear John… yours? I really doubt that."  
"Please, don't," Sherlock whispers, manages to avoid meeting my eyes for as long as possible. When I finally catch his gaze, he is looking so vulnerable, that although I am curious, I don't want to hear any of what Jim is about to say.

"Sherlock," Jim approaches him and strokes his cheek, "don't you think he deserves to know? It is, as it seems, your last day together." Jim doesn't wait for his answer, and reads the rest of the letter out loud.  
Sherlock keeps his gaze on the floor, his face beginning to blush in the dim light of the small lamp.

I feel my heart racing with every word that comes out of Moriarty's mouth, shivering to my bones, and feeling so sad that this is happening like this- when Moriarty's reading this letter for his own amusement, and Sherlock and I are both chained, with no clear way of how to get out of here.

When Jim gets to the part where the letter says- 'Frankly, I would rather die than live without you,' I feel the lump in my throat and know I won't be able to hold out for long.  
I am right, because when he reads out the next sentence, that says Sherlock never left me when he 'died', I start crying without any self-control.

I try, I really try to calm down, but each sentence burns my heart a bit, so when the letter is finally over, and the words "John Watson, I love you," echo in the room, my knees are shaking, and I collapse on the floor

Jim says something, but I can't hear him. I can't hear anything. Just the words "I love you," that I knew were basically said by Sherlock in that goddamn letter. The only thing that brings me back to reality is Sherlock's voice. That still sounds like he is on the edge of a breakdown.  
"John?" I sigh heavily and raise my head, the two men in the room watching me carefully. The one with an extremely satisfied look on his face, and the other with a worried expression.

I am still crying, but more calmly now, trying to take in everything that was said on the letter. A sudden joy begins spreading in my body, when I understand that Sherlock feels the same way about me as I feel about him. It is highly unexpected. I didn't think it could happen even in my wildest dreams.

I can't say it though, I can't tell him that I love him in front of Moriarty. There must be a way out of here, and if we make it, I will tell him that every day. It is a goddamn promise.

When I feel I am calm enough I start to stand back up, but Moriarty sees his chance and kicks me in the stomach, so I collapse back to the floor.  
He kicks me again several times. I ignore the pain as much as I can, trying to focus. I refuse to make a sound, to satisfy Moriarty with the knowledge that I'm in pain, so he just kick harder.  
I hear Sherlock's voice again, but ignore it as he yells. I repeat in my head the fact that Sherlock loves me, and that's enough to keep me strong and stubborn at the moment.

I am pretty sure that by now I have a few broken ribs, massive internal bleeding, and I am probably going into shock judging by the rate of my heart. That isn't a good sign at all. I know that if I'm going into shock I will die very soon, and pass out even sooner.

I turn to face Sherlock who is crying, and yelling and struggling in his chains, but I refuse to hear it. I just look at him, and when I am sure he is looking back at me, I whisper that I love him, too.  
I am sure he understands so I close my eyes and ignore the pain, as the kicks aren't stopping.

Suddenly, the kicks _do_ stop. There is a lot of noise, but I refuse to actually listen. There is another voice in the room now; it is quiet and even, totally in control. It doesn't take me long to know that the voice's owner is Mycroft Holmes.  
I think it must be the first time in my life that I am so glad to hear his voice. There is shouting, and when I manage to open my eyes, I see Mycroft pointing a gun at Moriarty, and Moriarty is pointing a gun toward Sherlock.

This cannot be good.

There are two shots simultaneously, and I feel my heart twitching with fear. Sherlock and Moriarty collapse on the cold floor, both of them surrounded with their own blood. None of them move, and Mycroft just stands there with his eyes open wide. He goes toward Moriarty and fires another bullet right to his head.

_Finally.  
_  
Mycroft yells again and many people enter the room, wearing uniforms, so they must be paramedics.  
One of them approaches Sherlock, and the second one approaches me. He is asking too many questions and I find myself unable to speak. I want to answer that young boy, really, but nothing comes out.  
Instead, I hear myself asking him if Sherlock is still alive. He says that he doesn't know just yet what happened to the other casualty, but he will inform me the second he finds out. Stupid git, is it too much to ask to go to the other corner of the room and find out?

I start going into shock, and I already am half passed out when the young paramedic and Mycroft lift me to the stretcher and take me out of the dungeon.

Mycroft smiles broadly, and I take it as a good sign that Sherlock is still very much alive. I close my eyes and let myself calm down while my body is doing exactly the opposite.

There is a good chance that I won't survive this, but if I do, I know that my future is waiting just for me, and it includes the two people in the world that I care most about- Sherlock and Rachel.


	11. Chapter 9- With Or Without You

_**Hello there! **_

_**Thank you all for reading! I owe everything to my great friend Old Ping Hai for beta this chapter! Working with you is a great honor! **_

_**Well, enjoy! **_

**Chapter 9, part 1- With Or Without You. **

**Sherlock P.O.V**

* * *

I'm sitting here, next to John's hospital bed at St. Barts. It feels like I've been sitting here for no more than ten minutes, but the clock shows it's been nearly ten hours.

After the latest events in Moriaty's mansion, both John and I were hospitalized.  
I've been shot in the shoulder, so no serious harm was done, although being shot twice in one year wasn't something I was aiming for.  
But John... John is a whole other story.

John suffered from massive internal bleeding, with lots of internal organ damage, mainly to his spleen (which they had to remove during surgery.)  
The day we arrived at the hospital he was rushed to surgery, but they had to stop in the middle because they weren't sure he would be able to survive it. And so, 2 days later, when they saw he was getting strong enough, they rushed him back in.

It was a long surgery, eight hours of nerve-wracking tension and fear.  
But after all of that, there was only one important thing: he survived this. He survived the shock, when no one believed he would. Even the doctors were doubtful.

It's been a week since John and I were hospitalized, and it was the longest week of my life.

Everyone came by: his sister, Mrs. Hudson, Janine and Mike Stamford. Even Lestrade came, but then again, he was just in the room next to John's.

Now it's the only time this entire week that I'm finally able to be alone with him, even though he's still unconscious.  
Just being here, sitting next to him and holding his hands is quite enough for now.  
I'm worried; there's no point in hiding it. The fact that John is still unconscious isn't good.

They gave him a week from the second surgery, and if he doesn't wake up by then, there is only a faint chance that he will ever wake up.  
But he will. I know he will.

There's knocking on the door and Mycroft walks in quietly, not waiting for a response. I refuse to acknowledge his presence, but he's just standing in the doorway.

I'm so sick of explaining what happened to everyone. I'm tired of repeating the fact that Moriarty did this, but that John is safe now, because James is dead.  
Really dead.

It's almost heartbreaking to tell everyone that John might not survive this, that they will remove him from life support if he doesn't wake up by the end of a week.  
But Mycroft already knows all that, he knows what happened, so why is he here? What does he want?

After a few moments, his presence really starts to annoy me, and I ask, as rudely as I can manage, what the hell he wants.

Mycroft approaches John's bed and stands beside it. He sighs heavily and stares at me.  
"How is he?" he finally asks.  
"He should be up any minute. He doesn't have much choice."  
"Is that what the doctor said?"  
"The doctor said that if he doesn't wake up in the next 3 days, they are removing him from life support."

I try to keep my voice as steady as possible, and to people who don't know me it may sound like that too, but Mycroft is one of those who knows me. So he notices, but he keeps his mouth shut. Thank god.

"Do you need anything?" He sighs again. I eye him closely and notice the black spots under his eyes and he seems a lot older than he usually looks. He was obviously exhausted from sitting next to Lestrade's bed day and night for almost a week.

"Coffee, make it dark," Mycroft smiles lightly and walks out of the room. The private room that he managed to get for John. I probably should thank him for that. Maybe later.

I hold John's hand tightly, and I start talking to him. The doctor said it might help. I tell him about what the doctor said, that he has to get better soon, and that neither the bloody doctors nor I are about to give up.  
I tell him that everyone who was tortured by Moriarty is already better, and that only Lestrade is still in the hospital. I tell him that I regret leaving him, and that I'll probably regret it for the rest of my life, and that I blame Mycroft, so I swear I'll never listen to any of his ideas ever again.

Mycroft comes into the room again, not even bothering to knock. He hands me the coffee, which is rather disgusting but I drink it anyway. He takes a seat next to me and drinks his own coffee. I decide to ignore him as he sits there listening, and just continue telling John anything I can, everything he missed this week.

I tell him how Harry cried when she visited yesterday, and kept on saying she loves him and misses him and that he's the best brother who ever lived.  
I don't mention of course that I yelled at her in response to her not even showing up for the wedding.  
God only knows what John might remember when he wakes up.

I tell him that the room is full of flowers, chocolate, and "get well" cards, and that I don't understand why anyone would buy that stuff for an unconscious man.  
Mycroft chuckles and pats my arm, which reminds me that he is still here. Seriously, doesn't he have some urgent government business?

"Why are you still here?"  
"Well," he checks his watch, "it's 3:46, I can't sleep, and Greg needs some rest. He can't have me there while he's sleeping, it makes him feel uncomfortable. Either way, little brother, this is quite interesting."  
He gestures toward John with his hand and smiles. I roll my eyes and tell him how ridiculous he is, but he doesn't mind. He stays seated but shuts his eyes.

I'm about to tell John about what happened with Janine, when Mycroft starts to interrupt, "Hmm... Sherlock?"  
"What?"  
"Did you tell him how you feel?" I turn to look at my extremely annoying brother, who still has his eyes closed.

"I told you already, there's nothing to tell." Mycroft chuckles again and shakes his head.  
"What?" I ask him, beginning to be irritated that he's bothering me during my only possible time to be with John.  
"Nothing to tell, Sherlock? You must be joking. Is there anyone else in the world whose hospital bed you'd sit next to for 5 days straight? When was the last time you showered? Or ate? Or even peed?" Mycroft sighs again, "You can't possibly say that there's nothing to te-"  
"Mycroft, shut up, will you? There's nothing to tell because Moriarty already told him. He read him the letter I planned to leave him before my flight."  
"Well... How did it go?"  
"How do you think? He cried and then Moriarty started beating him so he cried more. I imagined it a bit differently to be honest," I say sarcastically. I'm tired, and it's really the last thing I want to think about.  
It automatically makes me think about what John will have to say about that when he wakes up. It's utterly unnerving, and I'm trying to avoid it as long as possible.

"Given the circumstances, it's not so bad. Maybe when he wakes up, you could talk about that... I'm sure he loves you deeply, Sherlock."  
"You know what? Even if he does, his wife just died. He has a baby. I went to see her yesterday, and she looks exactly like Mary. How can I compete with that? How, Mycroft?"  
"You can't, he will probably need time, but he will get better. And then maybe you could give it a shot. Regardless, he is moving back with you to Baker Street, isn't he? I heard you say that to Mrs. Hudson a couple of days ago."

That fact always makes me smile when I think about it, living with John again will be fantastic. Raising his child with him... That's a bit more tricky, but we can do it.

Mycroft notices my reaction and smiles genuinely, "I'm sure you'll do great with the baby, Sherlock. Kids seems to adore you for some reason."  
As flattered as I am, I'm exhausted from speaking about John and me, and I'm completely determined to make it Mycroft's turn to feel uncomfortable.  
We haven't had this kind of conversation in years, it is definitely a refreshing change.

"How about you and Lestrade? Don't you want to take things to the next level? It's not like you to take things slow." Mycroft blushed and laughed bitterly.

"You're right, but I don't know if getting married is a good idea either. We talked about this, but we both represent something important in this country; he represents the Yard, and I represent the government. To do something as public as getting married might have an unwelcome effect on both of our positions. People don't often welcome homosexual couples, particularly not as representatives of something so important and meaningful."

"Just because both of you are pretty well known, doesn't mean that everyone would know about your relationship." Mycroft shrugs and closes his eyes again.  
"Maybe, but it's quite a risk. We'll see though, we have time. He really wants to adopt, you know."  
"Figures, Lestrade loves kids. What do you think?"  
"Maybe... In a year or so."  
"So you could tell everyone that he's your grandson? I don't think you should wait too long, no one likes an old daddy."  
"Shut up." It is rare enough to hear Mycroft swear, but to hear him swear with a smile on his face is an event that happens once in a decade.  
He even manages to surprise me.

I smile and turn again to face John, he seems so young and relaxed. As if nothing bad ever happened to him, like he is the calmest and happiest man alive. I stroke his cheeks gently, taking all the time in the world to enjoy the ability to touch him.  
I suddenly feel the annoying need to go to the loo, so I get up from the chair and lean forward to kiss John's temple gently.

"Keep an eye on him, will you?" I ask Mycroft, who's already beginning to fall asleep, but that will have to wait.  
I begin walking toward the bathroom when I hear Mycroft's voice behind me.  
"Sherlock! He woke up!" I stand still, not really able to move, "Come on, Sherlock!" I begin running toward John's room, almost bumping into Mycroft.

John's eyes are wide open, and it seems like he's on the edge of a panic attack. I approach John, squeeze his hands tightly with one hand and stroke his hair with the other, trying my best to be reassuring and make him calm.

Meanwhile, Mycroft has called the doctor and our private nurse.  
The doctor comes in the room and starts checking John's reactions.  
"John, can you hear me? Do you recognize those gentlemen?" John nods, his eyes still wide, and he is staring at me. He begins to calm down and leans into my touch.

The doctor smiles widely and assures us that everything is better than expected. He says that he'll come back in a couple of hours to check on him, but that meanwhile, John has to rest.  
He walks out of the room, and Mycroft follows him.

John does his best to smile back at me, but instead he just twitches his face with pain.

"What the hell happened?"


	12. Chapter 10- Can You Hear Me?

_**Hello, everyone!  
This is one of my most favorite chapter so far, and it took me alot of effort to get it as I wanted it to be.  
Either way, I hope you'd love it as much as I do :)  
Old Ping Hai is responsible for the perfect beta, she deserves your applauses!  
Don't forget to review!**_

* * *

**John P.O.V.**

I wake up to the sensation of firm, hot lips against my forehead. I keep my eyes closed, just trying to take in and lean into the comfort in this light touch.

I don't recognize whose lips are resting on my temple, but based on latest events, it isn't too hard to guess.

But now the firm lips are gone, and I start feeling a bit stressed, worried that the sensation was nothing but an illusion.

I open my eyes to see Mycroft Holmes staring at me with wide eyes, paler than ever. 

"John? John, can you hear me?"

Why is Mycroft here, in my room? Did he just kiss me? Does it mean that Sherlock...? No it can't be. I feel the panic spread from the pit of my stomach to every cell in my body. I ignore the flowers and presents that surround me, and just hear increasing beeping from the heart monitor.

Mycroft walks out of the room and yells something, probably calling a doctor. I try to move, but as I expect, everything hurts. I feel the cold sweat of panic on my forehead and the blood pumping very fast in my veins.

But then, Sherlock runs into the room with bandaged shoulder, and immediately I feel my body relax, just a bit. He grabs my hand and squeezes it tight, and he smiles a genuine smile that makes me feel even better.

Once the doctor comes in the room, Sherlock even starts to stroke my hair, as if to calm me down. What can I say? The man knows me pretty well.

The doctor checks my pupils and my reflexes and smiles broadly: "John Watson, you're a very lucky man. Everything looks very good, but you have to rest. All right? Rest, and I'll come back in a few hours; we'll run some additional tests. Fine?" I nod briefly and lean farther into Sherlock's touch, "Thank you, doctor," I say with a husky voice.

The doctor leaves the room and Mycroft follows him, leaving Sherlock and me alone in the room.

It isn't a regular hospital room, it is a private room, pretty large, with huge television and leather armchairs.

Sherlock stops stroking my hair and takes a seat next to me in one of those expensive armchairs.

I try to smile at Sherlock, but even this slight movement leaves me gasping with pain.

"What the hell happened?"

Sherlock remains silent for a minute and then asks: "Don't you remember what happened with Moriarty?"

"Of course I do. Don't look so miserable, Sherlock. I'm fine. But what happened since? How long have I been out?"

"A week. How are you feeling?" Sherlock squeezes my hand even tighter, and his gaze reflects deep concern. I smile at him, even though it hurts, feeling surprisingly touched by his concern.

"Fine, a bit sore, but I'll be all right. You've been shot," it wasn't a question, but he nods anyway.

"Yes, I have. Right shoulder, nothing important," he shrugs.

"Of course it's important, Sherlock," he rolls his eyes and I know there's no point to argue about this now, we'll have plenty of time for this later. "Pass me my chart, will you?"

Sherlock hesitates for a moment but then releases my hand and passes me my chart. He sits back and bites his lower lip. It is clear that he doesn't want me to read it, but it's better to face things now rather than later.

Let's see: shock, 2 surgeries, spleen removal, severe damage to the pancreas... Could have been worse. Since the second surgery vitals seem good. Looks like there is nothing to worry about, at least for the long run.

"Why are you smiling?"

"Could have been much worse, Sherlock. I've felt worse. You have nothing to worry about." I hand him back the chart and close my eyes. Even though I slept for a week, I still feel extremely weak.

"Go to sleep, John, you have to rest. I'll be right here when you wake up," I can hear Sherlock smile. All of a sudden he sounds so calm.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

* * *

Just a few hours later I am awakened by the sound of the doctors fussing around me.

I open my eyes, still exhausted and fuzzy-headed from all the drugs they were giving me.

There are two doctors in my room, both of them seem very young, probably interns. They are fussing around, checking my blood pressure, the stitches from the surgery, the other too-many-to-count bruises.

"Well, Doctor Watson, everything seems good," says the tall blond doctor. "But I want to keep an eye on your for another day, if that's OK with you. Just to make sure that you remain stable," the doctor smiles and leaves the room without even waiting for my answer.

"Wait, doctor!" Sherlock yells after him. The doctor comes back to the room and looks annoyed by Sherlock's interference.

"He just woke up after five days of unconsciousness. He went through two major surgeries, how is it possible that he can come home tomorrow?"

"Well, sir, he's healing perfectly, and we'll give him meds that will help the pain and healing process. Nevertheless, sir, he has to rest at home for couple of weeks. In two weeks he should come back for follow ups and blood infusion."

"Blood infusion? Why?" Sherlock looks so adorable when he doesn't understand something.

"Sherlock," I sigh. "Thank you, doctor, I'll explain it to him." The doctor gave me a slight nod and left the room.

Sherlock takes his regular seat next to me and seems like he's listening carefully.

"Look, Sherlock, the most important thing about our spleen is that it removes old red blood cells and holds a reserve of blood, which can be valuable in case of hemorrhagic shock, like I had. Now, because I don't have a spleen anymore, that means that I don't have anything to remove my old red blood cells, and so, I at least need new ones to keep me healthy. Do you understand?"

Sherlock gets up from his chair, looks at me for a brief second, nods, and leaves the room.

I try to call for him, but it doesn't seem like he's coming back.

Instead, I see him going toward Greg's room, which is just across the hall.

I can't see what is happening there, and my curiosity isn't easy to control. I think maybe I should go there myself, but so soon after the surgery, it might not be such a good idea.

Fortunately, Mycroft just left Greg's room and I'm sure he will be able to explain me what the hell happened.

Mycroft walks in and closes the door behind him. His smile is too restrained. Funny, most of the time his fake smile doesn't look that fake. He must be exhausted.

Mycroft clears his throat and sits where Sherlock sat five minutes ago.

"What have you told him?" he asks as he crosses his legs and tries to sit straighter.

"I told him about the spleen removal, what the implications of the surgery are. That they will have to give me a blood dose once a month. Seriously, I don't get what's the big deal," I shrug, suddenly understanding that maybe I've been too blunt with Sherlock, he never takes well to those kind of things. Maybe I should have explained more gently.

"Doctor Watson, as you're well aware, my brother fancies you a great deal. The last thing he wants is to hear how what happened with Moriarty will effect you for life, even physically. He feels guilty, I'm sure you can understand."

"What happened isn't his fault. It's no one's fault except Moriarty's. And your brother doesn't fancy me. That's absurd." Mycroft raises his eyebrow and chuckles.

"Doctor Watson, how thick do you think I am? Sherlock told me about the letter, you don't have to cover for him. Nevertheless, I've known for a few years," Mycroft shrugs, but his smile now seems genuine. I can't help but blush at the memory of Sherlock's letter. I've refusing to think about it since I wake up, but maybe the sooner I deal with it, the better.

Mycroft rises from his chair, pats my shoulder and walks out of the room. I can see both brothers talking in the hall. Sherlock looks extremely pissed with Mycroft. Not really surprising. Mycroft turns and enters Greg's room, while Sherlock remains standing in the hall, looking petrified. He stares at me through the window and smiles an unconvincing smile. I signal him to come into the room and with tentative steps he walks in and closes the door behind him.  
He keeps standing in the doorway, refusing to meet my eyes, and looking bored as hell.  
Typical Sherlock; never lets you see what is really going on, but behaves strangely enough to declare that there's something wrong.

"Do you mind sitting with me for a bit?" I ask as he keeps on standing at the other edge of the room. He nods, but before he comes to sit with me, he approaches the window and closes the curtains, which just makes the whole situation even weirder.  
He takes his seat next to my bed and remains silent. I sigh with disbelief; this man next to me is probably the most brilliant man that I've ever known, and yet sometimes he behaves like a complete brat.  
Now it is certainly one of those times.

"What?" he asks, and he just sounds so tired that I think maybe this conversation can wait, but I know that if we don't talk about it now, we'll probably never talk about it.  
"Sherlock, do you mind telling me why you went storming out of the room after what I just told you? I need you here, it's not easy for me, either."  
"I didn't think you'd like me here."  
"Why? Do you think I want to deal with it by myself? Sherlock, for god sakes, look at me." Sherlock finally lifts his gaze and looks me in the eyes. His eyes are red, and I'm not sure if it's because of the tiredness or because something else entirely.  
"Look, John, there's clearly nothing I can do to help. Not anymore. I tried to save you from James, but instead, I just sent you to him. Since I couldn't save you from him, you're injured. So maybe it's best if I just keep my distance, don't you think?" I look at him, completely shocked. How can he think that way? How can he take the blame so badly? I decide to try a different approach.

"Sherlock, do you remember what I told you while Jim was hitting me?" Sherlock frowns and arches his eyebrow. He shakes his head after a few moments, and I'm relieved.  
"I told you that I love you, too." Sherlock's eyes get wide and his mouth open slightly in shock.  
"No, you didn't," he says after a long silence. "You didn't say anything. I thought I saw you saying something but… no, absolutely no. I don't need your pity, John. I can fall out of love with you. It shouldn't affect our relationship."  
"Are you _fucking_ kidding me, Sherlock? Do you think I would tell you something like that only to make you feel good? Get out. Seriously, Sherlock, get the fuck out of my fucking hospital room." I close my eyes and feel the huge lump in my throat. How dare he; after all I've been through in the last week? He thinks I would just say a thing like that? Doesn't he know me _at all_?  
"No." Sherlock cuts my train of thoughts and his voice makes me open my eyes. I look at him, completely furious with his behavior and the fact that he thinks I lied when I said I loved him. Fuck him.

"John, I'm not going anywhere. But seriously, why would you love _me_? I can't see the logic here."  
"I can fucking ask you the same fucking question." I roll my eyes, still completely mad and as stubborn as I can be.

"What do you mean?"  
"I'm the ordinary, boring, dull John Watson. Oh, and don't forget stupid. I'm just like everyone else, so why me?"  
Sherlock leans forward and grabs my hand. I flinch a bit at the touch, but I let him. "John, you're anything but ordinary. You're the only exception to all of my rules, I thought you knew that. You're nothing like them, I assure you. And that's why I… care about you so much. You're different, unbelievably different. But, how am I supposed to think that you care about me this way, too? Your wife just died, you've been locked up in a dungeon with Moriarty for three days, and even got really badly injured while you were there. How am I supposed to know that what you feel is genuine and not just because everything else is falling apart?"  
Sherlock left me speechless. He was right, of course, if I were him I'd possibly think the same thing, but I know that I have loved him for more than a week; far more than a week. Are four years enough to make it genuine? I guess so.

"I never said I wouldn't need more time to adjust and deal with everything that's happened, it still doesn't change the fact that what I feel for you is genuine. I do love you, Sherlock, and sure, it will take a while for me to do something about it given the circumstances, but I love you." I squeeze his hand tightly, and a sudden calmness spreads in my body.  
Sherlock rises from his chair, stands above me, and kisses my forehead very gently, just like he did when I first woke up in the hospital. I can't believe how soothing and right it feels.

Sherlock sits back down and looks at me for a couple of seconds in comfortable, easy silence. Finally, all he manages to say is: "Thank you."  
I'm about to say "with pleasure," when we hear knocking on the door. Mycroft comes into the room and clears his throat. Sherlock and I release each other's hands and look at Mycroft with narrowed eyes and annoyance. _We were having such a wonderful moment, thank you very much, you big git.  
_  
"I'm sorry to interrupt, but I've brought you a little surprise." Mycroft looks at me for a minute, turns to the hall, and drags an incubator crib into the room. When my mind finally catches up with what I see, I feel my heart pounding fast with excitement and unexpected joy, as I remember something that Mary told me when we found out she was pregnant: "Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body." And right now, I completely understand what she meant. I've never seen this little creature before, and I already feel like she owns my heart.

I feel the steaming tears of joy running down my face as I look at my beautiful little baby girl. Sherlock grabs my hand again and gives me a reassuring smile. I smile back at him and feel happier than ever.  
"It was quite an effort bringing her in here, but Dr. Watson, I would like you to meet your daughter, Rachel."


End file.
